


A Game of Misunderstandings

by JustGettingBy



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Justice League - All Media Types, Superman - All Media Types, Superman/Batman (Comics)
Genre: Blackmail, Christmas, Identity Porn, Identity Reveal, M/M, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-06
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:47:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 36,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21697165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustGettingBy/pseuds/JustGettingBy
Summary: Things were going well for Bruce until some hot-shot reporter learns his identity. Now, he'll have to do what he can to keep his secret quiet. Even if that means joining the game of blackmail that Clark Kent started.
Relationships: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 360
Kudos: 1239





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Set early in a vague timeline. No league yet--they've both been doing the whole hero thing for only a few years.

Glitzy fundraisers always made Bruce’s head hurt, doubly so when they so happened to be Christmas themed. He could never be sure what made his stomach turn more: the frivolous small talk, the drunken debauchery, or the self-congratulation. He laughed and smiled on cue. He posed and slung his arm across a model’s shoulder. When the tray of champagne came around, he always reached for a full flute, took a sip, and then ditched the full glass on a side table or ledge. He was living the dream.

Today, in particular, he wanted nothing more than to leave the banquet fall. Last night, despite the aching early-December cold, he and Superman busted up a crime ring in the that had heads in multiple large cities around the country. It had been a last-minute thing—he’d picked up some intel while on patrol about the ring leaders. The big guy was the only one who’d answered the call. 

Bruce flexed his right hand and absentmindedly rubbed over the welt on his wrist. He needed to look lofty—casual and uncaring. Last night, a perp had gotten a well-aimed shot at the joint that allowed hand movement. The fabric was still bullet-proof, but it didn’t stop the nasty bruise that blossomed from the impact. Superman fretted over the whole thing—his super ears picked up a nasty crack at the impact. Apparently the force of the impact left a minute fracture (no thicker than a hair and no longer a pinky nail) on one of the many bones in Bruce’s wrist. Sure, Bruce’s wrist ached, but he’d had much worse. He didn’t understand why Supes was  _ so  _ worried. Acting like he was made of glass. Bruce flexed his fingers and worked out some resting discomfort. He’d have to find a way to reinforce the joints of the suit without losing flexibility. 

“Brucie!”

Bruce turned on his heel with a flourish and pulled his thoughts away from his other suit. “Anna, lovely to see you.” He kissed her on both cheeks. “This event is absolutely gorgeous.”

The younger woman smiled. “Well, if we can raise some money for the orphans, all the better.” She brushed a strand of her blown-out blonde hair behind her shoulder.

The muscle in Bruce’s jaw twitched. “I thought the money was going to fund education for underprivileged students?”

Anna didn’t even shrug, she only swirled her champagne flute. “Isn’t it the same thing?”

Bruce forced a smile and didn’t reply. Instead, he scanned the ballroom with his eyes and searched for some woman he could flirt with for the next half hour before ducking out of the event altogether. His skin felt exposed, vulnerable. He needed to put on the suit again and head out to the streets. There was a mid-level member of the crime ring that had gotten away yesterday, and Bruce needed to get him into the commissioner—a little bit of pressure and the crook would fold like a house of cards. 

Anna cleared her throat and stared at Bruce. 

“Hm?”

“I  _ was saying, _ ” Anna started, the annoyance clear in her voice, “that I cannot believe Ella Spring rewore that dress. It didn’t even look good the first time—the cut of the neckline is all wrong.” buried

“Mhmm.” The neckline  _ was _ wrong. The dress itself was a gorgeous deep blue, but the sweetheart cut was off, making the straight line waver and turned the seam up. Bruce hated himself for noticing. 

“She should have the decency to at least get something new, after all the effort I put into this event. You know-”

“Excuse me?” A man in an oversized suit and thick-framed glasses stepped out from the crowd. “Clark Kent, Daily Planet. Could I ask a favour from you, Mr. Wayne?”

“Sure, sure.” Bruce buried his hand in his pocket and tried to appear casual. He welcomed the distraction from Anna (who was turning her head to look for the next most eligible bachelor) at any rate. “I can always make time for Central City’s leading paper.”

“We’re based in Metropolis, Mr. Wayne.”

Anna rolled her eyes. 

“Yes, yes. I know. You’re the Superman paper.”

Kent cleared his throat. “We write about much more than that.”

“I’m sure you do.”

Anna composed herself—she pulled her back straight, brushed a strand of hair aside, and let her hand rest on Bruce’s upper arm. “I’ll let you two speak. I should make my rounds anyway.”

Bruce swept over her with his eyes. “Always the gracious host.” He winked. “We can catch up later.” 

Anna laughed lightly and floated off into the crowd. 

Bruce loosened his tie and turned to Kent. “Do you mind keeping this short? I’ve got, um,  _ business _ to attend to, if you know what I mean.”

Kent barely hid his look of disgust, but he did hide it. If Bruce had actually been drunk, or if he had a less sharp eye, he wouldn’t have caught the journalist’s contempt. But as quickly as his lip had twitched in disgust, he schooled it back into a steady mask. “Of course,” he said. “I just have a few questions to ask you about public education in Gotham.”

Bruce chuckled. “That’s sly, you know.”

Kent blinked. “I’m sorry, I don’t follow.”

“Asking me for a favour and then digging in with a question. Sly.”

Kent actually looked a tad shy at being called out. “People are usually more forthcoming this way. Leading with questions scares people away.”

“Naturally.” 

Kent fished in the pocket of his ill-fitting suit and pulled out a black notebook, no bigger than the palm of his hand, and a cheap ballpoint pen. “What do you think of the funding cuts to public education in Gotham? The projected increase in class sizes?”

Bruce shifted. Why was Kent asking  _ him _ ? “I haven’t been following the story too closely.”

“You’re here tonight,” Kent pointed out. “The entrance fee alone was no small donation.”

Bruce waved his hand dismissively. “A party is a party. If we can raise some money while we’re at it, then all the better. Right?” He scanned the room. A few feet away was a waiter, holding a tray of champagne. The perfect exit. He just needs to wait forty-five seconds—a minute at most.

“There’s probably a lot of people here who can speak to the issue—have you met Lucy Hill?” Bruce continued. “She used to be a teacher before she became a model—well, I heard she went to a semester of college for it. But still.” The waiter was nearly there. Bruce mentally planned his exit—grab a flute of champagne, spill another one on Kent, waltz out of the conversation in the confusion, and send Kent a cheque to cover the dry cleaning tomorrow. 

“Well, Mr. Wayne, I actually think you’re exactly the right person to be talking to about this.”

“Oh?”

“You’re nearly the sole funder of Moira Andrews, the grassroots leader running for congress. The one pushing for stronger public education and public health care.” 

Bruce frowned. “My company donates to many political candidates. I don’t really know—”

“I’m not talking about your company, Mr. Wayne. I’m talking about you, personally. You’ve funded Andrews campaign not only through anonymous donations but through small increments that made it much harder to trace back to any individual. Why?”

_ How does he know? _ Bruce knew Kent was sharp—one of the top journalists in the country—but he never thought he’d care about something like this. 

Bruce was saved from answering—the waiter came by on cue. Bruce lifted two flutes filled with bubbling champagne off the tray. “Have a drink, Kant.” Bruce grinned, wide and open. 

“It’s Kent—and no, thank you. I’m here for work.”

_ Perfect _ . Bruce pushed the glass toward Kent anyway, tilting the rim toward the lapel of his old suit, with a grin plastered across his face. The champagne should’ve spilled entirely over the front of Kent and the glass should have shattered on the marble floor. 

It should’ve. 

It didn’t.

Instead, Kent held the flute in his hand. Not even a drop had landed on his jacket. “Mr. Wayne.” He pushed his glasses up his nose. His eyes looked positively red. 

“Sorry, sorry. A little clumsy, I guess.”  _ How had he caught that? _

Bruce reached his hand out to take the glass, still full, back. Maybe he should just drink both. It would get him out of this interaction. 

As he wrapped his hand around the glass, the sleeve of his jacket pulled back and reveal his black and blue wrist. 

Kent paused. His eyes flitted from Bruce’s wrist, to his jaw, and back to his wrist. Kent stepped back, sizing Bruce up with a dumbfounded look plastered across his face. “It’s  _ you _ .”

Bruce raised an eyebrow and laughed uncomfortably. “Of course it’s me.” 

“No—no. I mean it’s  _ you _ .” Kent locked eyes with Bruce. “You’re Batman.”

Bruce’s insides froze. His heart slammed into his gut again, again, again. He tried to laugh. The sound that he choked out sounded like a dying bird. Kent had accomplished what no criminal had managed in the past three years—he’d caught Bruce off guard. Completely. “I know I have a reputation for getting into antics, but I can assure you that dressing up as a bat is one thing that I’ve never done.” Bruce shrugged, trying to make himself appear casual. “Not yet, in any case.”

Kent wasn’t paying much attention. He ran his hand through his hair, his jaw slack with shock. “I can’t believe how well you’ve pulled this all off. God—why didn’t I notice before? This is just—I don’t even know what to say. Here you’ve got me at a loss for words.”

Bruce swallowed. Had his mouth always been this dry? “Mr. Kent.”

“Well, this changes things. For sure. Everything is going to be different, from now on,” Kent rambled on. “But it’s good, right? This is good.”

_ You bastard. _ How could this be good? Bruce flexed his wrist and tightened his grip on the champagne glasses. Were there always so many people in the hall? It seemed positively cramped. He set the two still-full glasses on the ledge behind him and pulled at his collar. Was there any point in denying it? “Mr. Kent,” Bruce repeated.

“I mean—wow. This is not how I expected this night to go. At all.” He stopped speaking for a moment. “But you know who I am, right?” He looked at Bruce expectantly. 

“Yes.” Of course, Bruce had been lying at the start—anyone who was even half paying attention to the news knew the names Clark Kent and Lois Lane. Top-notch reports. National award winners. They’d taken down multiple corrupt companies and businessmen and their combined age was barely fifty. 

Kent shook his head. “Of course you know who I am. ‘The Superman newspaper’—and they say you don’t have a sense of humour.”

The blood pounded in Bruce’s head. His shock was wearing thin and revealing his anger underneath. “I’ll have to ask for your discretion.”

Kent chuckled. “And another one. Just cracking jokes tonight.”

_ Of course, he’ll share my secret. He’s a goddamn reporter after all. _ Bruce shifted his weight to the balls of his feet. His gut squirmed with nausea. 

Kent’s faced stiffened—he looked less dumbfounded and more serious. “Bruce—do you mind if I call you that?—of course I’ll be discreet.” 

Across the room, a woman in a black dress raised her hand in their direction. 

“That’s Lois—we do have assignments here tonight, so as much as I’d like to stay and chat, I’ve got work to do,” Kent explained. “But we’ll continue this conversation later?”

He wasn’t really asking a question, Bruce decided. They  _ would _ continue this conversation later. Whether Bruce wanted to or not. 

As he watched Kent shift off back into the crowd, Bruce vaguely wondered what would be the price of Kent’s silence. Most people had one—even if it was extraordinarily high. But a reporter like Kent? He might not. Bruce frowned. He might have to come up with another way to keep his secret under wraps. Kent might’ve started the game of blackmail, but Bruce would be damned if he let him win. At least not without a fight. 


	2. Chapter 2

Bruce stirred early the next morning, despite the fact he’d gone to bed late. He couldn’t sleep. The dread nested too deeply in his gut. He’d tried to distract himself. It didn’t work. So he’d turned to the internet and tracked down every fact about Clark Kent he could find. 

The man was a ghost--or at least he was as much as a ghost as anyone could be nowadays. He had no Facebook, no Instagram, no LinkedIn. He did have a twitter, which contained links to articles and tweets of his opinions, but it held nothing about Kent’s personal life. Plenty of online news articles came up when Bruce ran a search for “Clark Kent”, even some dating back to when Kent was still in high school, but there was nothing more personal. He could only find two photos of the man--the first a professional headshot that was tied to his Twitter and Daily Planet profile, the second a grainy eight-year-old photo of a high school football team, wherein Kent was at the back, mostly obscured by other players. Who was this guy?

When it had become clear that Bruce wasn’t getting anywhere with his search—at least not at the moment—he tried to sleep. He got a few fitful hours. He couldn’t turn off his mind entirely. 

When he came down in the morning, the smell of dark earthy coffee met his nose. Heavenly. 

The world outside the manor was covered in a thick layer of dry snow. Flakes still fell, but they were quickly turning into the wet, heavy, type that would bring down tree branches and muck up the highway. 

“Good morning, Master Bruce,” Alfred said. He laid a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon and fruit on the table. 

“Morning, Alfred.” Bruce sat at his place and poked the food with his fork. His gut tightened at the thought of eating. His anxiety bubbled. He took a slow bite and chewed. Alfred’s cooking was usually spectacular—and Bruce was sure that today was no exception—but right now the eggs tasted like rubber against the sides of his mouth. 

“Alfred,” Bruce said, “I think I need to let you go.”

“Eggs not to your liking?” Alfred continued tidying the dishes. 

“I’m being serious.” Bruce set his fork down. “My identity’s compromised. It’s not safe for you to stay here—you should head back to England. Or Amsterdam or Paris or Tahiti. But you shouldn’t be here anymore.”

“A generous offer.” Alfred tutted.“But I’m not ready to retire yet.” 

“Alfred.”

“Master Bruce, I can assure you that I’m not going anywhere, so it might be helpful if you explained what exactly is going on.”

Bruce leaned back in his chair and sighed. “Some reporter--Clark Kent--found out my identity. He hasn’t made any demands yet, but I can’t figure out for the life of me how he learned my secret.”

Alfred frowned. “So there are two problems really: the matter of his silence and the matter of his methods.”

“And I don’t even know where to begin.” Bruce pulled at the ends of his messy hair. 

“Without resorting to rather, er,  _ unscrupulous  _ methods, I can’t I say I have any advice either.”

“I thought about discrediting him.”

“Naturally.”

“It should be easy, you know. Just make him look like an untrustworthy reporter. But he’s too established at this point. He’s got national awards, several top stories, and to top it all off he’s working for the Daily Planet. If it was some rag like  _ The Now _ , well, it might be easier. But I don’t think I’ll be able to discredit him.” Bruce paused and sipped his coffee--dark and almost burning. “I don’t think I  _ should _ discredit. He’s done some good work. Great, really.”

“I see.” Alfred looked pointedly at Bruce. “That considerably narrows our options.”

“Exactly. I’m sure I can buy his silence for now, at least. But not forever. What if there’s a slow week? Another reporter trying to outshine him?”

“We’ll figure it out, Master Bruce.”

“I know, I know.”

“First, I might recommend finding out _ how  _ he learned. The last thing we need is another reporter--or worse, a tabloid--to learn your identity.”

***

Bruce had been right about one thing: the snow turned into sleet. Wet, heavy flakes (that were somewhere close to rain) hammered the streets of Gotham. Cars slipped around corners and slid down hills. The pedestrians walked slow and with care. By the time night fell, most of Gotham returned to their houses. Most. 

Bruce perched on top of a building, watching the docks. He’d heard a rumour there was a shipment of illegal weapons coming into the city. The intel wasn’t solid, but he couldn’t chance to let the guns flood the streets, which meant waiting for hours out in the storm. 

Bruce shivered.  _ I need to add a heating system. And reinforce the protectiveness of the joints.  _ The list of improvements he wanted to make to his suit went on and on and on. He’d wanted to put in a heater last year too, but somehow that luxury always got bumped to the bottom of his list. 

Bruce shifted his night vision goggles into infrared mode. Now  _ that  _ was a worthwhile upgrade. Still, though, he couldn’t see anything in the bay. 

He flexed his wrist. The low-grade ache still lingered where he’d been hit a few nights before. The low-level painkillers did little to stave off the pain; anything stronger left Bruce feeling muddled and confused. 

Right now, the last thing he needed was more confusion. He couldn’t work out how Kent had learned his secret. There was no logical reason—he had little in the way of confirmation but he was so damn certain. Kent was probably gathering evidence now, come to think of it. Getting photos, matching dates, finding witnesses: establishing the paper-trail for his inevitable editorial. 

Bruce supposed he could just  _ ask _ Kent how he’d figured it out, but that felt like the wrong move. The last thing he needed was to expose another vulnerability to Kent. 

The next best move, Bruce decided, was to dig up some dirt on Kent in return. Mutually assured destruction. Even though the man barely existed online, he had to have a past. There had to be something he wouldn’t want the world hearing about. The only question was if whatever he found on Kent would be enough to ensure his silence. A man like Kent… he might not care. And—if he beat Bruce to the story—whatever Bruce put out in return would look like a sad, pathetic attempt at retaliation. 

Bruce was pulled from his thoughts by a small noise—a light fluttering of fabric in the wind and a soft press of boots into the slushy snow. “Superman,” he said curtly, without turning around. 

“Bu—uh—” Superman stumbled over his words— “B,” he settled on. He swallowed, awkwardly, and stood next to Bruce. “I wanted to stop by. To talk.”

Bruce nodded. Contrary to popular belief, he really didn’t hate when the other hero dropped by. Sure, at first there might have been some growled ‘leave my city’s tossed around, but the truth of the matter was that Superman was an asset. A giant one. One that Bruce couldn’t afford to turn away out of his shallow pride. And—after a few botched first missions—Superman had picked up the art of subtly. He was a fast learner and (as much as Bruce hated to admit it) a natural at investigating. 

“Have you heard anything about the one who got away on Friday night?”

“Rumours, mostly. A source of mine says he hopped on a plane and is probably in Buenos Aires by now.” Superman sat on the ledge next to Bruce, his blue-clad legs dangling over the edge. 

“So, are you up for a vacation?” 

Superman chuckled. “I would be,” he said. “Except for the fact that a  _ different  _ source of mine said the one who got away—Tony Spina, by the way—is laying low in his mother’s basement for the time being.”

Bruce hummed in agreement. “And where might that be?”

“Here in Gotham. I’ve got the address—” Superman handed Bruce a folded slip of paper— “I figured you’d be best for this case.”

“I appreciate it.” Bruce nodded. “I’ll page you if it doesn’t pan out.” That was how they kept contact, most of the time. Little pagers that would be impossible to trace if they got in the wrong hands. It was mostly for Bruce’s sake—if Superman needed to get into contact with him, he’d just fly over. But, whenever Bruce pressed the button, Big Blue would come. There were a few other heroes out there too—the Flash in Central City, the Arrow in Starling—but they were too transient, too busy with their own lives for Bruce to rely on them regularly. 

Bruce shifted the mode on his goggles again, back into night vision mode, and adjusted the lenses to magnify the docs. There were a few workers milling about, unpacking a fishing boat, but he couldn’t see anything otherwise. 

Superman (despite having already given Bruce the information he’d clearly come to deliver) loitered by Bruce’s side. “So,” he said. “What are you looking for?” 

“Got word of a shipment of black market guns coming in.” Bruce stretched his shoulders back. A low ache started to set into his bones. “Starting to think it might’ve been a bad source.”

Superman squinted over the bay. “I can’t see anything out there for miles. The next closest ship is—” he narrowed his eyes further— “carrying car parts.”

“Hm.” Bruce did trust Superman, but he also couldn’t let those weapons come in. 

“So, uh, yeah.” Superman scratched the back of his head. 

Bruce turned to him. In the pale light, he looked otherworldly. The snow caught the low light of the street lamps and illuminated his face. His skin glowed. The hard-line of his jaw jutted out and stood in stark contrast to the brick buildings at their backs.  _ Fuck _ . 

Bruce turned back to the bay. He breathed deeply and focused on slowing the race of his heart, lest it gave him away. 

“So,” Superman repeated. 

Bruce swallowed. “Look, even if there’s no shipment out there, I can’t take that chance. I’ve got some other leads to track down.” He stood and shivered slightly. A bit of slush and water and ice that gathered on the back of his suit fell to the ground. “Thanks for the address. I’ll let you know what I find out.” Bruce turned toward the fire escape, readying himself to crawl to a higher building before turning to the alleys. He needed something more on the weapons, and he had a fairly good idea who might know more. 

“B, wait!” Superman stood—no, he goddamn  _ hovered _ a few inches off the ground. 

Bruce turned his head back.

“Um, I just wanted to say I’m glad we’re working together.”

“I appreciate your help.” Bruce schooled his voice. “But I do have to go.”

Superman’s eyes swept over Bruce. “Are you cold? You look like you’re freezing—”

“I’m fine.”

“—and the last thing you need is hypothermia. The weather can’t be comfortable with your wrist, either. I’ve heard injuries can ache like hell in the cold.”

_ My wrist.  _ That was how Kent made the connection. He’d seen Bruce’s injury. But how had he known Batman had the same one?

“Here,” Superman said.

A subtle warmth flushed over Bruce. As if his whole body had suddenly been wrapped in a soft heat, not unlike a campfire. The aches in his joints, his wrist, his back—they all eased. His head felt clear. He could focus. 

Superman looked at his own feet. Were his cheeks a shade pinker than normal? The colour faded in a fraction of a second. Bruce couldn’t decide if he’d seen it or not. 

“Uh,” Bruce said, “thanks.” 

“Good luck tonight,” he replied. “Whenever you have time, I think we should talk.”

Without another word, Superman took off. 

Bruce watched the blue streak fade into the clouds and snow until he disappeared in the night. 

Bruce didn’t stop thinking about him until his head hit his plush pillow nearly five hours later. And maybe not even then. He swore he never remembered his dreams, at any rate. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the love so far! It definitely motivates me to write faster.

Glitzy fundraisers always made his head hurt, doubly so when they happened to be Christmas themed. Triply, if he happened to be the host. 

The Wayne Foundation’s Christmas Eve Gala was rapidly approaching and with each coming day, Bruce felt his headache grow a little more. He wondered vaguely if he could sit the whole thing out and chalk his absence up to some mysterious and extremely contagious disease he picked up abroad. But that was probably a bad idea. Right?

Marie, the foundation’s event planner, set her plans on Bruce’s desk. “Does that sound alright, Mr. Wayne?”

Bruce picked the folder up and browsed the pages. Everything else had been confirmed months in advance: the venue (the Ritz-Carlton), the guest list (socialites who made Bruce’s eye twitch but had deep pockets nonetheless), the food (catered by a local company with a menu designed by a two-Michelin star chef), etc, etc, etc. The only details that were left to iron out were some decorations (which Bruce left entirely to Marie’s discretion), the press, and the seating arrangements—the first plan which Bruce was currently looking at with Marie awaiting his approval. 

Bruce smiled. He didn’t care too much about the seating plan, as long as no fights were likely to break out. Then again, that might provide some much-needed entertainment. “Looks great, Marie.”

Marie nodded. “Thank you,” she said, her words tipped with the slightest French accent. “I’ll let you get back to your, uh, work.” She reached for her bag and stood to leave. 

“Actually, do you the reporters who are coming yet?” 

Marie seemed flustered—she tucked her hair behind her ear. “Uh, I know some of them. Not every paper has confirmed yet, you know, but it’s mostly the usual society reporters.”

“Hmm.” Bruce picked up a pen and twirled it around his finger. He needed to try his best to appear casual. He couldn’t let Marie catch on to how invested he was in this. “Any papers from Metropolis coming?”

“Just the one, sir. The Daily Planet.”

“Hmm.”  _ Goddamn it. _ If he didn’t have enough to worry about already. 

“I’ll have to double-check who they’re sending,” Marie continued. “But I’m fairly certain it’s Cat Grant, their regular society reporter.”

_ Thank god.  _ Bruce relaxed his shoulders and tried to hide his obvious relief. The last thing he needed to worry about at the gala was Kent. It would be the perfect place to spill a secret. “Thank you.”

Marie nodded curtly and left his office.

When the door clicked shut, Bruce sank down, deep in his chair, and stared at the white ceiling. How much energy had he poured into worrying about Kent? The reporter had only learned his secret a few days ago. How much longer would Bruce have to keep stressing about this?

Bruce spun around in his chair until he faced his window that overlooked Gotham. From this high up—and his office was even higher than he usually went as the Bat—the city glowed. Soft snow clung to the architecture. Even the bay seemed peaceful when Bruce knew for a fact it was anything but. 

He hadn’t tracked down the shipment of guns that were supposed to be coming into the city. He hadn’t caught up with Tony Spina. The usual menagerie of villains were being suspiciously quiet. Maybe they were taking a break—maybe everyone was enjoying some downtime. Everyone except Bruce, of course. Between his activities as the Bat, Bruce Wayne’s social life, and running a company (or at least pretending to), he’d barely had a moment to himself in months. Now with the whole Kent thing on top of everything else… he wasn’t sure how’d he keep up. But he’d have to find a way.

Bruce ran his hand over his jaw. Sometimes he wished there were more of him. Extra eyes on the docs, extra hands in a fight, a second brain to puzzle through a problem. 

Bruce sighed. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. Maybe there was a way. 

***

Bruce paced on top of the GCPD building. It was still early—just after six at night—but the darkness of winter had already crept over the city. In the summer, it wouldn't get this black until well after eleven. Bruce was beginning to understand how the commissioner felt—he’d buzzed for Superman some time ago and the boy in blue hadn’t turned up yet. Well, it had only been eleven minutes. But it was still longer than he’d ever taken before.

Logically, Bruce knew Superman did other things than being Superman. As active as the man (alien?) was, there were chunks of time he was off-grid, so to speak. He’d stop a bank robbery in Metropolis, save some village from a landslide in Guizhou, disappear for eight hours, and then stop a plane from going down over the Rockies.  _ All in a day’s work.  _ Bruce shifted his weight. Even after doing all that, Superman never seemed to look anything less than perfect and shining and, well, extraterrestrial. No human Bruce had ever met looked the way Superman did. The sharp lines of his face, the glowing blue of his eyes, the prosody of his voice… Bruce snapped his head up and shook away his thoughts. 

He was glad that he pulled himself away from his obsessive thoughts because a moment later Superman touched down softly on the roof of GCPD. Bruce needed a clear head to talk to him. 

“Sorry it took me a moment,” Superman said. “I had some business to take care of in Metropolis.” 

Bruce nodded. He’d often wondered why Superman spent so much time in that city. It was his home base, of sorts. It was true that most of the major cities had a hero looking after them—something between a protector and a mascot—but he’d never quite figured out why Superman had picked Metropolis. It  _ was _ a giant city, but there were bigger ones out there: London, Paris, Tokyo, Sydney, Berlin. What drew him there?

“Did you signal for me so we could talk?” Superman asked, sitting against the edge of the roof.

“Actually, I have a favour to ask.”

“Oh?” Superman quirked an eyebrow.

Did he always act like that? He looked nearly smug. “I need you to watch the docks for an hour, two at most,” Bruce said, his voice low and raspy. Only some of the rasp came from the cold.

“Oh.” The look on Superman’s face melted into disappointment. His lips curved down, his expression fell. He gathered it quickly into the hard mask of the hero he usually wore. “Of course I can do that. No luck with the weapons shipment last night?”

Bruce shook his head. “Haven’t found Tony Spina either, but I’m sure the rat will come crawling out of hiding sooner rather than later. Those types are always over-eager to get back into the game.”

Superman nodded in agreement. “But he’s a low priority right now.”

“Exactly.” Bruce pressed his weight onto his heels. He was aware—hyper-attentive—to Superman’s eyes on his back. 

“I can stay tonight,” Superman said. “I’ll watch the docks.”

“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” Bruce said. He turned to Superman and nodded. Awkwardly. 

Superman blinked at Bruce, but he didn’t question his reasons for needing help. “I’ll see you in an hour, B.” He smiled, slightly, and took off toward the docks.

***

Twenty minutes later, Bruce was in Metropolis. The city was clean, markedly so, and even though he’d been to the city many times before the lack of grime and litter in the main streets always caught him off guard.

Usually, though, he sauntered around the streets in a sleek suit and polished suits and never ventured into the alleys. 

Tonight, he slinked through the alleys, clad in his  _ other  _ suit. He moved quietly, silently, and was careful not to catch anyone’s attention. Although, he doubted anyone would believe Batman was crawling around Metropolis at 7:30 p.m. on a Tuesday. Still, Bruce didn’t like to take unnecessary risks. 

When he reached the apartment—he’d found the address in a barely encrypted Daily Planet personnel file-he double-checked the room was empty. According to Kent’s calendar, (also shoddily encrypted) he was out for a dinner with Lois Lane at the moment. Bruce made a mental note to dig deeper into that relationship, but from the surface, it appeared they were partners in journalism only. 

Bruce tried the window. To his surprise, the glass plane slid open. Clark Kent was either so secure in his place that he didn’t need to worry about his own security or so out of his depth that he hadn’t realized he needed to. 

The apartment was on the seventh floor, but the open window was only around the corner from the fire escape. 

Bruce swung his leg over the window. Kent was probably out of his depth, Bruce decided. Smalltown boy from Kansas who’d only moved to the city a few years ago? Sure, a few years in Metropolis (as tame a city as it was) would roughen the edges of any shiny all-American boy. Kent must’ve been feeling bold, feeling experienced, feeling like he could get away with his stunt. Bruce would just have to nip his arrogance in the bud. 

Bruce rolled onto the hardwood floor and stood, slowly, to take stock of the room. The apartment wasn’t exactly how he’d pictured it. The living room was sort of impersonal—there were no sports posters or footballs or even many pictures. Against the far wall stood a giant wood bookshelf packed with novels and textbooks that all looked cared-for, but read many times. A few potted plants punctuated the books. They also seemed well-loved—green and perky despite the dark of winter and nippy draft coming from the old window frames. 

Bruce leaned down and pressed one of his bugs to the bottom of the bookshelf. When he was flush with the floor, he could see a slight black tick sticking out from the wood, but if he pushed it back any farther the bug would only pick up muddled conversations. 

From there, Bruce made his way into the kitchen. It was clean—cleaner than most bachelors kept their kitchens—but looked as if it had been rarely used. Maybe Kent was a take-out kinda guy. Bruce wondered if Kent’s Midwestern sensibility rebelled at ordering food. Nonetheless, Bruce still stuck another bug on the underside of the table in the socket where the screws held the wood together. 

Next, Bruce made his way into Kent’s bedroom, which was just off to the side of the main hallway. When Bruce reached the threshold, he paused. What Kent had done was wrong, but this felt… well, not necessarily  _ wrong _ —Bruce didn’t have any major qualms with gathering information against a guilty party—but bugging Kent’s bedroom didn’t feel  _ right _ either. But leaving Kent be was a dangerous gamble. 

In the corner of Kent’s room, under a streaky mirror, was an old wooden dresser. It looked vintage and weighed more than it had any right to when he slid it forward. Bruce pressed the bug on the backside of the dresser, pushed it back in place, and pressed the doors shut. The placement of the bug meant any conversation Bruce listened in on would be a bit muffled, but he doubted Kent would ever find this one. Besides, Kent wouldn’t move that heavy old dresser anytime soon. 

Bruce scanned through the apartment with his eyes. He hadn’t disturbed anything—everything looked exactly as it had when he entered. Bruce would’ve liked to do another once around to ensure everything was immaculate, but his time was running short. He hardly needed Kent walking in and catching Bruce off guard. Again. 

Bruce lifted the window and rolled back out into the punch of winter’s night air. When he reached the cave, he’d start up the systems. Start listening.  _ Your move, Kent. _

  
  



	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is late. Life got a bit crazy between exams, Christmas, and a sick family member. I was hoping to have this fic done for Christmas, but obviously that's not going to happen anymore. Nevertheless, it'll still be Christmas themed.

Bruce was halfway back to Metropolis when his pager beeped. He stilled. Why was Superman signalling now? He knew Bruce was on his way. 

The pager buzzed again. 

And a third time. 

Three beeps.  _ SOS.  _

The road ahead blurred. The blood rang in his head as it raced through the tracks of his veins. What could possibly have gone that wrong?

For a second, Bruce hesitated. If Superman called him, the plan was for Bruce to meet him at the top of the Daily Planet building in Metropolis. The only time Superman had actually used the signal before was when an alien bounty hunter was tearing apart downtown Metropolis and Bruce had just followed the trail of damage to the fight. 

Bruce was sure that Superman was still in Gotham. But he couldn’t entirely fight the gnawing doubt at the top of his brain. What if Sups had returned to Metropolis for some reason? He wouldn’t signal for danger unless it was imminent. 

But Bruce couldn’t hesitate forever. Indecision was just as bad—if not worse—than the wrong decision. He punched the gas on the Batmobile and shifted it into self-driving mode. He and Sups needed a better communication system, but for now, he’d have to make do with what he had at hand. 

“Alfred,” Bruce said into his radio. 

The static fizzled and before the voice came through on the other end. “Yes, sir.” He never used Bruce’s name while he was out. 

“Get me a visual on the docks.”

“Certainly, sir. Give me one moment.”

The radio crackled and Bruce turned his attention back to the road. Traffic was light, thankfully, but the Batmobile weaved around slow cars and an oversized semi. “Come on, come on, come on,” Bruce whispered to himself—and to his car if he was being honest. What if there’d been a traffic jam? He needed a faster way to move around. He needed to get from A to B without worrying about commuters and pedestrians. And roads. 

“The docks, sir,” Alfred said. 

The windshield of the Batmobile flickered. In the far corner, a small and transparent image pressed on the glass—surveillance footage from the docks. Bruce squinted. It looked quiet, he thought, nothing out of the ordinary. No shooting, no fighting, not even anyone unloading a ship. Nothing that would warrant an SOS from Superman. “Fuck.”

“Alfred, can you scan Gotham for any abnormal activities?”

“Certainly, sit. Of what variety?”

Bruce pressed his lips together. “I need to know if there’s been any Superman sightings.”

A beat. “Consider it done.” The radio crackled to silence.

Did Alfred know how Bruce felt? Bruce wasn’t even certain he knew how he felt. But he couldn’t worry about that now. He stared at the image of the quiet dock by the bay. 

_ Fuck it. _ He programmed his destination for the docks anyway. It was his best bet until he learned anything more. Bruce drummed his fingers against the wheel. His wrist still ached—that nasty hairline fracture caused more discomfort than he’d like to admit—but it was tolerable. Especially with the surge of adrenaline pumping through his body. He was lucky (though he hated that word) that Gotham and Metropolis were so close together. If he’d gone any farther, he was sure he’d never make it in time. 

As his vehicle swerved off the exit-ramp that led to the bay at a next-to-lethal speed, Bruce switched on his police scanner. It was a long shot, but that chatter had proved useful in the past. 

Tonight, they buzzed on. Break-in here, drug deal there, a random gunshot, and on and on. A speeding car on the highway. Bruce almost chuckled at that one.

Ten minutes later, still with no word from Alfred, Bruce pulled into the docks. It was a record trip—he’d never made it back that quickly before. Bruce let a low breath out and threw open the door, his feet clattering as they fell on the pavement. The wind hit him like a damp, cold blanket and tangled his cape behind him.  _ Comeoncomeoncomeon. _

He pulled out his binoculars and switched into infrared mode. 

Nothing. 

Bruce’s breath caught in the back of his throat. 

He’d miscalculated. 

He slammed his hand to the side of his head and activated his com. “Alfred,” he said, low and raspy, “I need whatever you can give me.”

“Our friend in blue has been awfully quiet this evening.”

_ Because he knows I wouldn’t appreciate him making a scene. _

“There are no verified sightings of him this evening,” Alfred continued, “the only piece of evidence I’ve found—and it’s rather unsubstantiated—is a rather grainy photo from a twitter account ‘SupramanFangurl1251XD’. The picture’s taken from a moving car and show a mark in the sky above the warehouses near the railyard. Our super-fan insists it’s Superman, naturally.”

Bruce pressed his fingers at the pressure point on his temple. Even though the area was covered with the hardness of his cowl, he still found some relief. “And what do you think?”

“Well, it could be a bird. Or a plane. But that's all I have at the moment.”

_ Damn it.  _ “Keep searching. I’m en route.” Bruce closed the channel, sprinted to his car, and set the destination for the trainyard. It wasn’t perfect—far from it—but it was the best chance he had. 

He could have set the Batmobile to self-drive for the ride, but Bruce decided against it. The self-driving option couldn’t swing wildly through the streets, it couldn’t nip the corners or weave through the steady traffic. The car played it safe. Bruce did not. He pulled the muscles in his hands taunt and gripped the wheel, jerking it left, and slammed his foot to the floor. 

How had things gone so sideways? It was supposed to be a simple night. Bug Kent’s apartment, come back, watch the docks. Maybe— _ maybe— _ bust up some gun dealers while he was at it. But nothing big. Nothing major. 

Bruce whipped off the main road toward the railyard. 

_ Fuck. _

It looked quiet. Nearly dead. 

Bruce pulled out his binoculars again and pointed them toward the railyard. 

_ Fuck. _

Inside a warehouse on the other side of the tracks, there were four heat signatures. One on the ground. 

Bruce threw the binoculars behind him and ran. His feet pressed into the ground. His blood thundered against his ears. He wasn’t used to sprinting long distances in the suit—the weight pulled him down. The snow felt as if it were pulling his ankles to the ground. The side of his boot chafed against his calf. He grunted as he clamoured over the tracks.

Bruce swung his leg against the door to the warehouse, his heel met the metal and a bolt of pain sparked up his leg. The door didn’t budge. 

“Goddamnit,” Bruce growled. He swung his leg again and drove his heel into the metal next to the handle. The drove gave way, the metal slammed to the floor and Bruce’s momentum carried him with it. He turned his fall into a roll, his shoulders skidding over the concrete floor, and propped himself back up on his knee. He wiped a skiff of blood off his bottom lip. 

The scene before Bruce made his gut crawl into his throat. On the far side of the warehouse, two men clad in black unloaded a seacan—one that still rested on a train bed—into the open back of a moving truck. 

In the centre of the warehouse, arms pulled behind his back and handcuffed to a post, was Superman. Another man in black held the barrel of a handgun to his forehead.

Normally, Bruce would have chuckled. A handgun against the man of steel? It shouldn’t have even been a question of who would win. 

But this wasn’t normal. Superman’s skin looked ashen—a horrid grey tinged with a sickly green. His dark hair was sweat-soaked and clung to his forehead and the nape of his neck. His head lolled down, his eyes distant, as he drifted in and out of consciousness. On his thigh, an open wound oozed, dripping a tarry black blood onto the floor. 

“It’s the Bat,” someone called across the room. 

Bruce lunged forward. A litany of bullets met him. He ducked and rolled again. Most of the bullets collided with the pillar to his left. Some punctured the thin metal walls of the warehouse. One clipped his arm. A dull ache blossomed from the impact, but it wouldn’t be anything more than a bruise tomorrow. 

Bruce ducked out from his cover and threw a batarang at the man nearest to Superman. The sharp metal nicked his arm and the man cussed, dropped his gun, and pressed his hand to the bleeding wound. 

“Clear out!” One of the men loading the truck motioned to come with him. The other yanked the backing closed.

The one with the injured arm darted forward, but stopped before he fell into a sprint. “But we have *Superman*.” 

“Stay with him then, for fuck’s sake.” The two men jumped into the truck.

The last man hesitated. His eyes darted from Superman, to the moving truck, to Batman. He sprinted for the truck.

Normally, Bruce would’ve gone after them. Tonight, that didn’t matter. Bruce rushed to Superman’s side. 

“Hey—hey,” Bruce said, reaching for Superman’s face and lifting his head. Superman’s pupils were dilated, his lids drooping. “Come on, big guy.”

“B?”

“I’m here.” Bruce pulled at the metal of his cuffs. They were solid, surprisingly, possibly police grade. *Who are these guys?* Bruce twisted the link. These smugglers were dangerous. “Keep talking to me. What happened?”

Superman pulled at them lightly. They didn’t budge. “There was nothing at the docks.”

“Mhmm.” Bruce pulled a pick from his belt and worked at the lock. “I gathered.”

Superman exhaled out his nose in a puff. “I scanned the city. Tracked the guns here.”

*Fuck.* Bruce pulled the cuffs open. *This is my fault.* He’d have to worry about that latter. “You can tell me the rest after you get your medical attention,” he said bluntly. 

“No hospitals,” Superman said. He pressed his hand to the oozing wound in his leg and tried to stand. “They had Kryptonite bullets, B.” 

Bruce lopped his hand under Superman’s shoulder and eased him to his feet. Where Superman had been sitting prone, a pool of blood clung to the floor. “How bad is it.”

“A graze. But there are shards.” Superman gritted his teeth. He pressed his foot and tried to move forward, but he nearly buckled in pain. 

Bruce heaved more of Superman’s weight until he was nearly carrying the other man. “We’ll get them out. I can provide discrete medical attention. We just need to get across the tracks. Can you do that?”

Superman swallowed. “Yes.”

They moved slowly through the railyard, trudging through the snow and slush. Superman weighed more than a man his size should—Bruce wondered if his body was denser than a human's. It had to be. Muscles alone wouldn’t account for his weight. He looked nauseous and pale and, if Bruce could feel it, he was sure his skin would be clammy. 

Bruce prayed no one else was hanging out around the railyard. They were too open like this, exposed and vulnerable in a way that made Bruce’s hair stand on end. 

Finally, they reached the Batmobile. Bruce lowered Superman’s weight slowly and buckled the man into the passenger seat. His eyes were trailing lower again—his level of consciousness was rapidly dropping. Bruce stood outside the door and studied the other man. 

“B?” he asked, his eyebrows raising slightly. “Get in?”

“You’ll be in good hands,” Bruce said. “I’ll be there soon.” He closed the door before Superman could protest. 

Bruce programmed the route straight to the Batcave. The car took off toward the mansion. 

  
“Alfred,” Bruce said into his com. 

“Yes sir?”

“Superman is on his way. He needs medical attention. Gunshot wound on left thigh. Shards of kryptonite embedded in injury. ETA ten minutes.”

Alfred didn’t say anything. It was a rare surprise that left him speechless. “I’ll be ready, sir,” he finally said. 

Bruce breathed an air of relief. “I need you to send me bleach, also. Half a dozen jugs.”

“I could arrange a clean-up crew, if you wish.”

Bruce turned his head back. The night made it difficult to see the trail of blood embedded in the railyard’s mucky snow. Likely, no one would think anything of it. It would be covered by another layer of snow and melt come spring. But Bruce couldn’t take that chance. A single drop of Superman’s blood could spark a fight. He didn’t want to imagine what a whole pool could do. “No, Alfred, I need to do this myself.”

“Very good, sir. A drone will be on its way shortly.”

Bruce nodded to no one and clicked off his comm. He sank down into the dirty snow of the railyard, and pressed his hands to his cowl. What had he done?


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I didn't abandon this.   
> I just got held hostage by the witcher fandom for two months.  
> Sorry. 
> 
> Basically, I think my writing has also improved a bit since I started this fic and I'm not super happy with the flow of the start anymore, but for now I'm leaving it up. When all is said and done I might go back and edit.   
> Anyway, enjoy!!

The last thing Bruce had expected was that the night that started with him wanting to plant a bug in Clark Kent’s apartment would end with him dumping copious amounts of bleach in the snow to cover Superman’s blood. 

But here he was. 

And it was all his fault. 

Bruce bit down on his lip and trudged through the snow again, making sure that there was nowhere left uncleaned. Even a  _ drop  _ of Superman’s blood in the wrong hands could be disastrous. And—given that the men had kryptonite—they had a particular interest in the hero. A shudder ran down Bruce’s spine. 

He tried to shake it off, but he couldn’t fight the encroaching sense of dread that suffocated him. 

* * *

When Bruce pulled up to the cave some hours later in his back up car, he took a deep breath and steadied his hands on the wheel before getting out of the batmobile. 

He hadn’t heard anything from Alfred, but Bruce figured the old adage applied here: no news is good news. If something had gone wrong with Superman, Alfred would have called Bruce without hesitation. Instead, the butler had probably focused all his attention on the alien bleeding out in the cave. 

Bruce sighed to himself. There was another sticky point: the cave. Bruce was the type of person to lay plans. Even though his ‘Brucie’ image may suggest the opposite, he always tried to account for everything. Lay contingency after contingency. He didn’t like being caught off guard, let alone caught off guard with no way to move forward. 

The last few days had tested him to no end. Surprise after surprise. 

So, no, he hadn’t planned on bringing Superman to the cave. Not now, at any rate.

But he had calculated it was an eventual possibility. After all, there was nowhere else on Earth with the facilities to treat the alien. Even if there was, Bruce couldn’t have guaranteed the discretion of every staff member. Here, he could count on discretion. If needed--if the alien’s condition was beyond what he and Alfred could comprehend--could call in a specialist. No hospital needed. 

But that meant that Superman had seen the mansion. He  _ had _ to have seen where the car pulled into the cave, even if the entrance was around the bend in the road. With another hero, Bruce could have maybe relied on denial, but Superman would be able to see straight through the rock to the manor overhead. 

Superman knew his identity. 

He’d prepared for that eventuality, too. 

Of course, he’d pictured it differently. Mostly it involved  _ himself _ dying in some horrific way, or some attack on a public event, or if he needed a cover. He hadn’t considered he’d have to give up his identity to protect Superman. He had, all the same. And now he had to face the other hero.

Bruce steeled himself as he exited the car. Across the cave, Alfred was diligently wiping down the metal table used for surgery. “Master Wayne,” he said curtly.

“Alfred,” Bruce replied. He nodded once. 

“Superman will recover. I removed the shards of the kryptonite bullet from the wound,” Alfred said and gestured to a small lead box on a shelf. “It does appear to be healing, but our guest is resting now in the back.” 

“Thank you,” Bruce said in earnest. “I mean it. Without you, I wouldn’t last a week.”

The corner of Alfred’s mouth quirked. “Frankly, sir, I think that’s generous.”

Bruce let out an exhale of a laugh and shook his head. He could keep pacing out here, or he could open the door to the separate back room. 

“I believe he is resting but awake,” Alfred affirmed. 

With a slight nod, Bruce took his cue. He’d face psychopaths and serial killers, demons and aliens, monsters and monsters, but the thought of walking into what amounted to a hospital room gave him heart palpitations. 

Still in the suit, Bruce pushed through the door to the secluded back room. It smelled of stiff antiseptic and sweat. In the middle, laying on a hospital-style bed with a knit blanket pulled up to his bare chest, was Superman. 

He looked worse than Bruce had ever seen him. All because he asked him to take over patrol for an hour. Bruce was never leaving Gotham again. 

A lump crawled into Bruce’s throat as another thought washed over him: he’d never seen the alien without his costume. Logically, he knew it wasn’t part of his skin, but it may as well have been as far as the world was concerned. Now, the Boy Scout looked thoroughly dishevelled—rumpled hair thick with sweat, dark-rimmed circles under his eyes, and a sickly pallor bathing his skin—but he still sat up and gave a weak smile to Bruce. 

“Thank you,” he said. His voice sounded scratchy, like someone who was getting over a nasty bout of flu. “I owe you one, Bruce.”

Bruce felt as if ice flood his veins. He did know, it seemed. And he wasn’t going to elaborate. Bruce supposed that was better than uncomfortable questions about how Brucie Wayne and Batman could really be one and the same. 

But Bruce didn’t have to like it. “No names when in uniform,” he growled. “Plausible deniability.”

Superman rolled his eyes. “There’s no one for miles, save Alfred. He makes a great surgeon by the way—give him my thanks again.”

Bruce folded his arms over his chest. “It’s the principle of it. You can’t get in the habit of saying my name when I’m in uniform. Besides, there are other ways of listening. You should know that,  _ Superman _ .”

"Point taken." Superman, though still looking ragged, raised an eyebrow and smirked. “But, you can’t call me that, seeing as I’m not in uniform right now. I can hardly be Superman in a pair of boxers now, can I?” His words dripped with lighthearted humour. 

Bruce purses his lips. Under any normal circumstance, the thought alone (not to mention the sight) of Superman in boxers would stir something deep in his mind and make his suit uncomfortably tight in delicate areas. Now, though, it was decidedly unsexy. 

Instead, there was something more intimate than Bruce could have anticipated. Here he was, seeing the strongest man in the world and his absolute weakest—sick and injured and run down. Half-naked. Superman  _ trusted _ Bruce. Completely. 

It wasn’t a matter of exposure, or passion, or even lust. Their present situation boiled down to vulnerability. And Superman didn’t shy away from it. 

Bruce wished he could say the same. “If I can’t call you Superman, what can I call you?”

A brief look of confusion flashed across Superman’s face, but it settled. “Oh—oh, I guess you’re right. I’m no one, right now. Not really.” He looked up at the craggy rock of the roof and fluorescent light. 

“Call me Kal. Kal-El,” he said, his voice so soft it was hardly more than a whisper. 

A shiver ghosted across Bruce’s skin. “Is that…?”

“My real name?” He chuckled. “It  _ is  _ my birth name. Not that anyone really uses it.” The loose string on the blanket suddenly seemed of great interest to Sup—to  _ Kal.  _ He pulled at the thread and didn’t meet Bruce’s eyes. 

Bruce heard the story before—some from the comments Superman made to him, some gleaned from interviews after heroic rescues, but mostly from Lois Lane’s tell-all article. The alien had lost his family when he was young. Lost his whole world. 

Even now, the manor felt lonely without his parents. It would hit sometimes, out of nowhere. The hallways were all too long. There were too many bedrooms. Books on the shelves sat unread. 

The worst thing of all—the thought that dredged up the raw pain—was knowing that Bruce hadn’t lost only his parents. He’d lost part of himself, too. 

His mother was the only one who knew the story of the time he’d left milk in a saucer outside for a week on end to feed the stray cat (which turned out to be a raccoon, but that was beside the point). 

The first time Bruce pedalled his bicycle down the long walk without training wheels, his father was the sole witness and cheerleader. 

Without the people he loved, parts of himself vanished too. How could he be the same person as that little boy? How could he trust his own memories? It seemed, sometimes, as if those precious moments with his parents were little more than dreams now. They may as well be—he had no one who could confirm they ever happened. 

Bruce pressed his lips into a line. He ached so much for two people. He couldn’t imagine the hollow pain of losing an entire world. The history, the culture, the connection. 

The story was that Superman had a hidden fortress up in the arctic, where he did have some of the last remaining artifacts of Krypton. If Bruce thought the manor was lonely, the fortress must be tenfold. Just ice and memories to remind Kal-El he was the last of his kind. How had he grown up there, so devoid of contact? How could he return every night to the isolation? It didn’t add up. 

If Bruce was honest, he didn’t know how the alien hadn’t lost his mind.

Maybe it was a Kryptonian thing. Hardened psychology. 

“B?” Kal’s voice sounded. 

Bruce grunted. “Just thinking.” He reached back to scratch his neck but stopped himself. The suit was in the way. He was overtired and overthinking everything. 

“I need to change,” he said.

“Alright.”

Bruce hesitated. “Is there anything you need? I don’t have extensive records on Kryptonian biology.”

Kal sighed. “I need the sun, but I doubt you can get me that.”

“Not on this short notice.”

A smile slipped across Kal’s face. “I’m alright. I think. Mostly, I need to rest tonight. Come morning a few hours next to a window should do the trick and I’ll be out of your hair.”

Bruce dipped his head in understanding. “I’ll have a set of clothes brought down for you to wear in the meantime.” 

“Thank you, B. I appreciate it, you know. I don’t mean to intrude.”

A twinge plucks at the strings in Bruce’s heart—Kal wouldn’t be here in the first place if he hadn’t needed to bug that damned reporter. Between the injury, and the new knowledge that kryptonite bullets were flooding the black market, Kent had slipped to the least of Bruce’s worries. Still, he couldn’t neglect setting up the final elements for the surveillance or the whole mission would have been for nothing. 

“It’s no problem at all,” Bruce said. “I have work to do, but I’ll just be in the cave working on the computer if you need anything. Don’t hesitate to call.”

“I won’t.” Kal looked at him, his eyes big and tinged with fear. “And—I know this might not be a great time—but did you manage to get anything on the men with the weapons?”

Bruce tightened the muscle in his jaw. “They got away. For now. But I can assure you it’s on the top of my list to track them down.”

“Thank you. It’s not just myself I’m worried about,” Kal admitted. “Guys like that don’t get bullets like those on their own. No two-bit thug is going to shell out their own cash to try and bring me down when there’s not a bounty on my head—well, none that I know of, anyway. 

“Those bullets cost money. A lot. More than those men probably make in a year.”

Bruce drummed his fingers against the armour of his arm. “So you’re thinking…?”

He nodded. “There’s something bigger going on here, B. Someone’s funding them, I bet.”

Bruce had to admit it sounded like the most likely option. These men had known that the intel on their shipment had leaked. They’d moved their products from a boat to a train with relative ease—the ease only big money or political power could grant. 

“You missed your calling as a detective,” Bruce said. 

A slight pink rose in Kal’s cheeks, but he didn’t look embarrassed to be on the spot. If anything, he had a sort of playful expression splashed across his chiselled face. “I think I manage just fine,” he said.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your sweet comments! They motivate me to write faster.

Bruce woke to a faceful of his keyboard. He stretched up and tried to reorient himself as quickly as possible—he never felt comfortable not being fully alert—but the persistent grogginess clouded his head. His eyes couldn’t focus on the bright screen in front of him. Across the bottom, the time showed it was just after seven. The recording stirred and Bruce narrowed his eyes. Last night, he’d fallen asleep watching Kent’s apartment. It didn’t look like he’d been home at all, unless the man came in late, slept for a few hours, and tidied his apartment precisely the same before leaving early. Bruce made a mental note of the man’s no show. 

He’d have to dig in deep and find where Kent spent the night. His research didn’t turn up any current romantic partners of Kent. The closest thing to a long term relationship was with Lois Lane, but it seemed as if those two parted amicably this time last year. Bruce couldn’t rule out the possibility of one-night stands or short flings, either. Anyone close to Kent could give him a way into the reporter’s life. 

Bruce drummed his fingers on his desk. Even though Lane was no longer romantically involved with Kent, she was worth a second look. The two worked together, after all, and often shared a byline. 

“Morning, B,” Kal’s voice—dry but spirited—sounded from behind Bruce. 

Bruce switched the screen from Kent’s feed to an expense sheet. If the situation got dire, he’d loop Kal in on the Kent business. For the time being, Bruce didn’t see the need to worry the other hero, especially when he was already injured. Besides, Bruce had it all under control. 

“Morning, Kal,” he said. “How you feeling?”

“Much better, thanks. A little stiff and achy still, but nothing a good blast of sun won’t fix.” He walked across the cave and sat next to Bruce in the computer chair that Alfred used on the odd occasion. He stared up at the scene earnestly. “What’re you working on?”

“Budget,” Bruce said bluntly. He gritted his teeth. 

Kal was being  _ unfair.  _

Even sick, his skin seemed to glow. It was if he gave off a wavelength of light that was just straddling the range of human perception. His hair was pushed back in a carefree kind of way that Superman would never have worn. It suited him much better—this was a style he lived in. 

More than anything, Kal’s clothes tested Bruce’s careful composure. Probably because they weren’t really Kal’s clothes. They were Bruce’s. 

The grey sweatpants were a tad too short and brushed the Kryptonian’s ankle. Around the waist, they were a little loose, but Kal had pulled the drawstring tight. The look accentuated his slim hips before his torso broadened to his wide shoulders. The black shirt pulled a bit at his traps, but it fit him almost perfectly. 

Just last week, Bruce had worn this outfit while he hammered his punching bag for the better part of an hour. He’d  _ sweat  _ in them and then tossed them down the laundry chute. And now Kal wore that shirt and those pants. 

The warm smell Bruce could only describe as Superman mixed with Bruce’s favourite laundry detergent. 

It was all too much. 

“Looks complicated,” Kal said. 

“It is.” Bruce clicked on a cell and entered the amount he’d spent last week on gas for the cars. He focused entirely on the screen. 

“I was never one for numbers—I mean, sure, I can do math just fine. None of the sciences ever gave me trouble either. But it was just never my passion, you know?”

“Someone’s got to do it. We can’t all spend our days rescuing kittens from trees.”

“Hmm, you got me there,” Kal said with a throaty laugh. Halfway through, his laugh morphed into a ragged cough. 

“Oh, Rao. Sorry.” His face brimming with embarrassment, Kal looked down. 

“Kal,” Bruce said. He shut the screen to the computer off completely and turned to the Kryptonian. “You’re here to recover.”

“I know,” he sighed and laced his fingers together behind his head. “But staying in a manor to convalesce? It’s all very…”

“Victorian?” Bruce supplied.

“I was going to say Georgian, but you’re not wrong.”

“You’re a regular Jane Bennet,” Bruce said. 

Kal smiled. Those dimples were unfair. “Alright, but that makes you Mr. Bingley, you know.”

Bruce felt a knot twist in his gut. “I wouldn’t have expected Superman to be an Austen fan.” 

Kal chuckled. “It makes more sense that I’d be one than  _ Batman _ being one. I’d threaten to tell the world, but no one would believe me.” 

“That’s how a good cover should work,” Bruce said. 

_ Except my cover can’t be all that good.  _ Bruce closed his eyes for a moment and cleared his throat. “Can I get you some breakfast?”

“I wouldn’t say no to a cup of coffee,” he said sheepishly. “Maybe some toast, if you’ve got it.”

Bruce has to physically restrain himself from rolling his eyes. “I’ll have Alfred make a full farm breakfast.”

Kal’s face lit up like a damn  Christmas tree.

* * *

After they ate, the two moved into the sunroom at the back of the manor. As a kid, this was one of his favourite places in the whole house. Now, he hardly used it. It was hard, he had to admit, to sit on the living chair and look at the empty settee where his mother should be reading her latest romance novel. 

With Kal, it didn’t feel so empty. 

The Kryptonian nursed his third cup of black coffee (that vice Bruce hadn’t anticipated) and stared out at the snowy field behind the house. This deep in winter, the sun was still weak even though it was well after eight. “It’s beautiful here,” he said. 

Bruce swallowed uncomfortably. “Thank you.”

“No—really. I mean it.” Kal set his coffee on the side table, but not before sliding a coaster under it first. Sometimes, in moments like those, it impressed Bruce how easily the alien adopted earth customs. Even though Bruce had only been in China, he still found there were too many moments when he missed the subtle social cues and wound up making a faux pas. 

“It’s so—so tranquil. Just to sit here and look at the snow. I could forget I have a billion other things to do.”

He wasn’t wrong. Bruce  _ was  _ forgetting he had a packed schedule. There was nothing more he wanted than to say  _ fuck it _ , turn off his phone, and ignore his responsibilities for the rest of the day. 

Instead, he stood up. “Speaking of which, I  _ do  _ have about a billion things to do today.”

“Do you really need to leave?”

Bruce pressed his tongue against the back of his teeth. “Yes.” Why couldn’t he just say no? “But please feel free to stay as long as you need.” Bruce paused. “Or want.”

Kal smiled. “Yes—of course. Thank you, Bruce. For everything.” 

As Bruce walked into the main hall of the manor, he felt Kal watch him go. 

* * *

As he sat in his office and stared out over Gotham, Bruce was vaguely aware of Marie shoving the finalized seating plan under his nose. Usually, he summoned enough energy to pretend to give half a shit (it was his biggest fundraiser after all) but today his mind was elsewhere. He just couldn’t get the image of Kal wearing his old gym clothes out of his head. 

“Mr. Wayne,” Marie said with more than a fair serving of annoyance in her voice. “Am I alright to make this seating arrangement final?”

He glanced down at it. None of the tables would be causing World War III, at any rate. Plus, if some drama ensued between Ella Spring and Anna Hawthorn, it could be good for publicity. 

“Looks wonderful,” he said and gave Marie his best plastic smile. The gala was just over two weeks away and it was already sucking up so much of his energy. Would a single day to sleep in be too much to ask? 

As Marie placed the card back in her bag and droned about her next appointment with the caterer, Bruce ran through the list of things he had to follow up with: Clark Kent, kryptonite bullets, Tony Spina, reinforce his suit, and check with Kal. 

Kal. There he was again. Even just  _ thinking  _ his name made something in Bruce tick. Kal.  _ Kal, Kal, Kal. _

Bruce was privy to a softer side of Superman, a more real version of the larger than life hero. One that only a handful of people—at most—knew. The one that drank coffee and wore sweat pants and read  _ Pride and Prejudice _ . 

Bruce slumped into his hands the moment Marie closed the door behind her. This week felt as if it dragged on forever. And it was only Wednesday. And he had so much left to do. For a split second, Bruce considered dragging out the whiskey he poorly hid in his bookshelf for show (because of course Brucie Wayne would be one to have the not-so-occasional drink at the office) and actually having a swig. 

He stared at the bottle peeking out from behind the bookshelf. When his phone buzzed, he started but grabbed the receiver anyway. “Hello?”

“I have a call on line 2 for you,” his secretary, Joanna, said. 

“Who is it?” It didn’t matter if it was Luthorcorp, or the mayor, or even the Queen of England on the other end of the line; Bruce was going to tell Joanna to take a message. 

“Well, that’s the thing—I don’t know exactly. He says he’s a friend of yours from work? But he won’t give me his name to search up in our employee database.”

Bruce pinched his nose. “Just tell him I’m in a meeting or something and take a message.”

“I tried that at first, sir. He insisted it was very important, that he had to follow up from your meeting last night?”

Silence followed Joanna’s statement. Bruce paused, running through who it could be. He knew who he wished it was. In reality, it could be anyone from the Joker to a disgruntled ex-employee to a bored kid making crank calls. 

“Mr. Wayne?”

“Put him through.”

The line beeped and the light on his phone flashed. Joanna’s clear line cut away to a static-filled buzz. 

“Bruce?” Kal’s voice came through the phone. 

“The line isn’t secure,” he replied. Against the receiver, his knuckles tensed and tinged white. 

“I’ll keep it quick—I’m calling from a payphone. I think someone is trying to follow me.”

_ What?  _ Bruce stood up abruptly. “No,” he said firmly. 

“I wish it wasn’t true, but it is. Watch your back.”

_ Kent wouldn’t… _ Bruce blinked and paced his racing heart. That wasn’t true. He didn’t know what kind of man Kent was, who was to say he wouldn’t? 

And if it wasn’t Kent, that was potentially worse. The larger the leak of information, the more difficult it would be to contain. 

“We’ll deal with it,” Bruce said more confidently than he felt. “Meet me tonight, same place as usual.”

“Alright.”

Bruce stopped for a moment. “And you’re feeling better…?”

A pause lingered on the other end of the line. “Not the time for small talk, Bruce.” 

Bruce could practically feel Kal’s exasperation drip through the line.    
“But, yes, I am.”

With that, Kal hung up. Or maybe he ran out of quarters. 

Bruce sank back into his computer chair—careful not to throw his whole weight down or Joanna would have to order a replacement  _ again _ . 

_ This week _ , Bruce thought,  _ just keeps giving.  _


	7. Chapter 7

Bruce closed his eyes and swore he could drift off to sleep at his desk right there. He might’ve, if it weren’t for the stress pounding in his head. He needed an aspirin, a weekend getaway to some spa in the mountains, and a solid week of sleep. Perhaps all at the same time. But he had the time for none of it. 

He grabbed his wool coat off the rack next to his door and pushed through the door. 

“Mr. Wayne?” Joanna asked from her desk. “You have a meeting with investors in half an hour.”

Bruce shrugged. “Tell them I have a dentist appointment I forgot about and give them my  _ sincerest _ apologies.”

“You used that excuse last week. This  _ is _ the rescheduled meeting.” Joanna blinked. Bruce had never seen someone look so professional and so annoyed at the same time. He’d have to give her a raise. 

“I’m sure you can think of something to tell them,” Bruce said with a wink. The doors to the elevator slid open and he jammed the button for the parkade before Joanna had a chance to argue. 

He owed her a sizable Christmas bonus, too. 

* * *

Back in the cave (after tearing down through the city much faster than the speed limit) Bruce rushed to the screen. He couldn’t be certain that Kent had anything to do with Kal’s suspicion that he was being tracked, but the timing of it all seemed to convenient to ignore. Besides, if there was a leak, or a bounty for information, or  _ anything _ that put the hero’s privacy at stake, he needed to stamp it out.

For Kal, it was one thing. Someone could potentially gain access to sensitive information. But for the other heroes, a leak could be life-running. Even though she never spoke of it, Diana had to know state secrets from her involvement in the military. The Flash over in Central City wore a mask--if his identity spread there was no telling how villains would retaliate. What if he had a family?

Bruce pursed his lips, settled into his desk chair, and pulled up the camera feeds. 

_ Fuck. _

They showed only darkness. In the corner, the status of each bug flashed a notification that they’d been critically damaged. The last recording they’d taken was nearly two hours ago. How has he found them so fast? Bruce had planted them carefully--even someone with specialized training would likely have missed one. 

Bruce rewound the recording to show the last moments of the feed. He expected to see something measurable--like Kent inspecting his apartment before crushing them under his boot. 

Instead, he saw nothing. 

One minute, the cameras show Kent’s empty apartment. The next, they fizzle to static and blink off, one after the next, after the next. 

It was if an EMP hit them, but one by one instead of blasting the area all at once. Bruce ran his hand over his face in frustration. Was his tech faulty? It seemed unlikely after all the tests he’d run, but it was the best possible answer at this point. Something  _ must  _ be wrong with the connection, or the coding, or the hardware itself. He made a mental note to review the schematics for the bugs--another item on his ever-growing list. Bruce sighed to himself. He’d never had this problem before, but it wasn’t as if he used them all that often. Besides, he’d never tried them over this long of a range before. The glitch must be due to an oversight on his part, one he couldn’t afford to make again. Not with the level of consequences that his misjudgment could incur. 

Bruce leaned back in his chair and pressed his fingers to his temples. A low-grade ache stirred in the back of his head. His wrist still throbbed. A soreness covered his whole body--it sunk into his muscles and stayed in his bones. 

Sometimes he wondered if it was all worth it. All the training, all the risk, all the money. Was he really making a difference? There were still criminals, like Tony Spina, who escaped his grasp. Shipments of weapons that included  _ kryptonite _ came into Gotham without his knowledge. Now, evidently, someone was on to Superman. And--to top it all off--Clark Kent knew his true identity. When--not if--Kent shared the news, the fallout would certainly undo any of the good Bruce had done. All his records would be audited--the board of Wayne Industries would cut the steady but subtle streams of funds he’d directed to multiple charities. Alfred would be questioned. Bruce would certainly face time behind bars. 

And the ripples could reach further. 

A scandal like this could sway public opinion on heroes. Finding out that  _ Brucie Wayne  _ was the Bat would only cause an inherent distrust in superheroes to fester. There were already factions that contested the need for heroes--they’d have a heyday and spin the whole story. 

Maybe the world would have been better off if Bruce had never donned the cowl. 

Bruce grimaced. He couldn’t focus on this now. He had to keep moving forward, no matter how small the steps. 

Instead of giving in to despair, he riffled through his pocket and pulled out his phone--the one he kept separate for work. After a quick search, the line was ringing for the Daily Planet. If he couldn’t see Kent, he’d at least talk to him. Kent was probably counting on the fact that Bruce would be reactionary. That he wouldn’t make a move out of fear. The best way to get to Kent, Bruce decided, was to play games with his mind.

“Daily Planet, Trent speaking,” said the voice on the other end of the line. “How can I help you today?”

“Hi, hi,” Bruce said, letting his tone fall into his practiced carelessness. “I’m looking for...oh, what was it? Clark Kant? Kent?”

The receptionist didn’t respond immediately. “Unfortunately Mr. Kent is out of the office today. Said he wasn’t feeling well. I can still transfer you to his line, if you’d like, and you can leave a message. He should be back tomorrow.”

Out of office? Bruce tapped his foot against the floor. So Kent wasn’t at his apartment and he wasn’t at work either. “That would be fantastic,” he said. 

The line beeped and Bruce took a deep breath.

“Clarkie!” he said, pouring as much saccharin fakeness into his voice as possible. “Sorry to hear you’re a bit under the weather, but I was hoping we could catch up. After all, our conversation the other night ended with  _ so _ much left to talk about.”

Bruce steadied himself. 

He wasn’t backing down. 

Clark Kent had no idea what was coming for him. 

* * *

That night, Bruce hunkered down on a rooftop not far from Tony Spina’s last known place of residence. There was no way in hell Spina would be kicking around the place still, but Bruce hoped he could find a lead. More than that, he needed a new foothold into the underbelly of Gotham. His old sources were proving to be unreliable.

Bruce crossed his arms and rested against the brick of the building. The snow had let up today. Most of it was clear from roads and sidewalks, but it revealed a sheet of ice underneath. This kind of weather always made Bruce restless--it was a state of flux, not settled in any particular way. The city could warm or it could just as easily slip back into another deep freeze. 

Behind Bruce, he heard a soft noise land on the rooftop.

“Kal,” he said and turned. “Good to see you up.”

He nodded. “I feel much better. Thank you again for you’re, uh, help.”

Bruce couldn’t decide if it was his imagination or not, but it seemed Kal’s cheeks turned ever-so-slightly pink. Bruce cleared his throat. “So, you think you’re being followed?”

Kal’s regal posture deflated. In an instant, he’d gone from looking like an untouchable god (which Bruce had to remind himself he nearly was) to just another stressed-out human. “I found trackers at home. Someone is onto me.”

Bruce paused and considered the new information. He didn’t know exactly where Superman lived, only that he had a fortress up in the arctic somewhere. Bruce (ashamedly) had tried to search for the place via satellite imagery once but to no avail. Whoever had tracked Superman not only had managed to find the fortress but had also travelled to the arctic undetected. Not even Kent had that kind of power. There were very few people who did. 

“Lex?” Bruce guessed. 

“My mind did jump to Luthor,” Kal said. His back stiffened slightly--it was no secret how much the two despised each other. Lex Luthor was one of the most outspoken anti-hero voices, but he seemed to have a special spot of contempt for Superman. “But I can’t exactly level those kinds of accusations without any proof.”

“Do you still have the trackers?”

Kal shook his head slowly. “Hit them with a heat blast and dropped them to the bottom of the Atlantic.”

“It could’ve been useful to examine them. I could’ve traced their origin…”

“Should I contact Arthur? Get him to go on a treasure hunt?” Kal raised an eye. His tone was halfway between serious and joking.

“No, no. It’s fine. I can make do with security footage.”

Kal smiled sheepishly. “Well, here’s the thing… I don’t exactly have any.”

“Are you joking?”

Kal shrugged. “It’s not like I have anything to worry about.”

Bruce could strangle him. “Except for now you clearly  _ do _ .”

“It may be looking like that,” Kal admitted.

Bruce rolled his eyes, even though Kal wouldn’t see it. “I’ll put out some feelers. See what I can dig up.”

Kal nodded. “Thank you, B.” He reached up and put his hand on Bruce’s upper arm. 

For once, Bruce wished his suit was made of thinner material.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you. I can’t tell you how lucky I am to have you at my side,” Kal said. 

With difficulty, Bruce kept himself steady. All he wanted to do was to push himself forward, to reach up to Kal’s face, to push back his dark curls. Instead, Bruce swallowed. “Likewise,” he said curtly. 

Kal smiled and then abruptly stopped. He stepped back from Bruce and cocked his ear to the sky. “I have to leave,” he said in a sombre tone. “There’s an earthquake in Fiji.”

Bruce nodded. “By all means, go help.”

Before Bruce could even finish his sentence, Kal was gone.

Bruce stood alone on the rooftop, his head frazzled and his upper arm tingling. 

He was in this deeper than he’d anticipated. 

Honestly, he didn’t mind. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone,  
> Sorry this got delayed again. I lost my job last week. Please read this and enjoy, stay inside and check in on your friends and family and neighbours. The only way we're going to get through this is by caring about each other. Thank you again for all your love and support in the comments.

Bruce slipped into Tony Spina’s apartment under the cover of night. As he expected, the place was deserted--a newspaper from last month sat on the coffee table, the entire place was much too cold, and a faint rotting smell drifted from the fridge. 

Spina left in a rush, Bruce decided. In the bedroom, the drawers were left open and clothes stewed about the room. He must’ve packed a bag with only the essentials. 

Bruce stepped over a sweatshirt on the floor, careful not to disturb the scene. Spina left in a rush, but he wasn’t careless, Bruce amended. As messy as the room was, this wasn’t the result of a last-minute flee. Spina must’ve known he’d have to run at one point or another--there was no laptop or phone to be found. He didn’t want to leave evidence. 

The desk in the corner of the bedroom was a flat thing, barely more than a wooden table with a single drawer on the left-hand side. While Spina didn’t strike Bruce as the type to keep paper records (not that any criminal with half a brain was), he still rifled through the few things on the desk. Any clue would help. Well, any clue besides the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition and a white mug with a ring of dry coffee at the bottom. Most of the papers on his desk turned out to be trivial things--a receipt from a cafe a few blocks over, a book of old coupons, and some printed instructions on how to fix a leaking faucet. 

Bruce set down the paper and let a sound of disappointment rumble in his throat. He hadn’t been as naive as to expect a note on the fridge that offered Spina’s new address, but he’d been expecting something. He pressed his hand to the bridge of his cowl and tried to focus. His brief encounter with Kal had made it all the more difficult. Every time he closed his eyes, he pictured only the dark curl of his hair and his stunning blue eyes under his long lashes. 

Was he a teenager again? Unable to move away from his fixation? At this point, he might as well join the wave of teens who had a poster of Superman tacked to the wall of their bedroom. That was the level he was functioning at. What chance did he have with Superman? He was the most eligible bachelor in the world at the moment. 

But with Kal… a sliver of Bruce’s mind thought he had a chance. He’d seen the looks Kal had given him--his eyes lingered a moment too long, he smiled when he looked away. 

Bruce bit his bottom lip. He couldn’t let that kind of thinking sink into his head. It was dangerous. He’d end up distracted and disappointed. Besides, who knew what Kal’s sexuality was? Perhaps he didn’t pursue relationships like humans did. Kryptonian sexuality and relationships were a blank page in his knowledge of the species. It was presumptive to assume he could even attempt to maintain a relationship with Kal. Aside from the brief buzz between him and Lois Lane, there were no other hints that the Kryptonian was interested in _anyone_. Sure, the squeaky-clean image could be chalked up to the hero’s family-friendliness, but Bruce couldn’t assume it was only that. 

He let a small sigh out as he turned back to Spina’s apartment. Ruminating on Kal would get him nowhere. Instead, he moved from the bedroom back into the main area of the apartment. The paint on the walls was off-white and peeling slightly around the edges. At the front entrance sat an old rug with an empty shoe rack and--

Bruce stopped. He leaned in closer to the rug. Ground in the grey fibres were bits of rocks. A few leftover drops of dampness still clung to the fabric. Someone had been here recently, their shoes wet from the snow. It was hard to say exactly how long ago the person had been in here, or who it was, but there was no sign of forced entry on the door--they had a key.

Bruce amended his initial observations--there was no way to know if Spina had left in a rush or if someone else had come through and cleaned up any information he might’ve left behind. 

Bruce leaned down until he was nearly flush with the floor. Ever so faintly, he could see an outline on the tile where the person had stepped. A men’s size 9 or 10. Sleek design--loafer, not a boot. With the camera embedded in his cowl next to his left eye, Bruce snapped photos. 

He wouldn’t get anything more here. Not tonight. But he could pull the security tapes when he reached the cave and identify the shoe.

A small win, but a win nonetheless. Bruce was taking all that he could get.

* * *

He reached the cave sometime near three in the morning. It hadn’t been a particularly busy night, but he still busted up a break and enter at a local restaurant (which happened to have the best tomato soup in all of Gotham) and dumped half a pound of cocaine in the bay after pulling it off a dealer. Not a bad night. The cold snap and dump of snow slowed everything in the city, even crime. 

Bruce dropped his suit in a heap on the floor of the cave (he promised himself he’d put it away properly first thing in the morning, otherwise Alfred would end up taking on that task) and climbed the stairs towards the house clad only in his briefs. Mindlessly, he rubbed his wrist. The persistent ache was still there. Who knew a fracture no larger than a hair could be so annoying? 

In the main house, the lights were still. He flicked them off behind him and trudged up to his bedroom, ready to collapse. To his surprise, a note sat on his pillow in Alfred’s neat handwriting:

_Marie called to confirm the final details for the holiday ball. She insists (despite the late hour) that this cannot wait as she must move ahead by morning. She also requests you keep your phone on your person in the upcoming days. I second the motion. -A_

With a heavy and overdramatic sigh, Bruce crossed the room to his desk, fired up his laptop, and opened his email. Sure enough, there were three emails from Marie with the latest seating plans, lists of reporters, and a final bill for the alcohol purchased. His eyes glazed over as he stared at the white of the screen. 

_Looks great,_ Bruce wrote and sent the message. 

He slammed his laptop shut and collapsed into his bed, the warmth of his sheets and softness of his pillow dragging him into the haze. 

At night, he dreamed of a red cape, fluttering in the wind. 

* * *

Bruce woke to the steady beep of his alarm at ten in the morning. For most workers--hell, for most people--waking up at ten was a luxury for only the weekends. Given his nocturnal activities, ten felt too damn early. At least his constant habit of sleeping in helped maintain the image that Bruce Wayne was a frivolous playboy who partied all week and only drifted into work when it suited him. He stretched and fumbled for the button on his phone.

Only it wasn’t the alarm that was ringing--someone was trying to call him. 

“‘Lo?” Bruce mumbled into the speaker. It was only just after eight. No wonder he felt so groggy. 

“B, it’s Kal,” said the voice on the other end. 

For a moment, Bruce wanted to ask where he’d gotten the number. But the guy was Superman, after all. Bruce shouldn’t have been surprised. 

“Why are you calling so early?” 

“It’s eight-thirty… sorry, I assumed you’d be ready to go.” For a moment, silence lingered. “Oh, god. Did I wake you up?”

Bruce sat up and rubbed at his stubble. He’d need to shave--he’d already gone too long without tidying up his image. “No, no, it’s fine. I’m awake.” 

“I just thought--I know you wanted me to call you,” Kal said, his voice trailing off. 

Bruce felt a blush warm his cheeks. Had he been that obvious? Either way, Kal was here and calling him, so Bruce couldn’t complain too much. 

“Have you altered the others about the potential threat?” Bruce switched topics. He kept his wording vague. There was no such thing as being too careful--anyone could be bugging this line. 

“I’ve rung the alarm bell, so to speak. They all know to watch their backs.”

“Good,” Bruce said. A wave of relief flooded over him. With the half-dozen or so heros working around the country, they’d have a much higher chance at flushing the offender out. 

“Hopefully nothing more comes of that--but that’s not why I called you.”

“No?”  
“I found a source. Says there’s a shipment of weapons coming into Metropolis tonight. Same kind that came into Gotham the other night, if you catch my meaning.” 

Bruce’s chest tightened. “We should alert the authorities.”

Kal chuckled lowly. “You’re not up for a bit of fun?”

“You could’ve died.”

“But I didn’t,” he countered, “and now I know what we’re dealing with here. We need to find the source of these weapons, not just attack the dealer.” 

Bruce let out a hum of annoyance. Kal was right; they needed more information. Besides, it would be irresponsible to send local law enforcement into the deal. They’d be out of their depth. “Fine.”

“See you tonight, nine o’clock,” he said. “Meet me at the top of the Daily Planet building. I gotta go for now.”

And with that, the line went dead. 

Bruce tossed his phone into his bedsheets and collapsed back. He let all of the air out of his lungs. The Daily Planet. It all came back to that damned building. 

He reached down for his phone and checked the log. The number from which Kal had called was unlisted. Figures. With a little skill, Bruce could probably trace the source, but he wondered if there was a point. Kal might’ve called from a phone in that mysterious fortress of his, which was likely filled to the brim with technology beyond anything available on Earth. 

There were no other phone messages. Nothing from Kent yet. Bruce pressed his lips together and took a deep breath. He let the air fill his lungs and widen his ribcage--they way that Nicole, a yoga instructor he’d slept with last year had taught him. The deep breathing technique always worked to release some tension, which Bruce found a bit ironic considering how stressed he had always felt around Nicole. Around her, there’d always been a pressure to keep up his image. He could never relax, never fully unwind. Some part of his brain always had to be _on_ , no matter how rundown or tired he was.

He wanted someone to be with in a moment like this. Someone he could rest with. Someone he could live with in this place somewhere between sleep and reality. 

For now, Bruce turned in his nest of blankets. He could still get another hour of sleep, at least, before he had to get moving. Through the gap in the curtains, he could see a flurry of snow falling over the grounds of the manor. 

Logically, he knew he should be worried about breaking up the deal tonight. If not worried, then at least he should be mentally prepared. Instead, all Bruce could think of was the fact that he got to see Kal again. 

Bruce pulled his blanket up to his chin. Right now, with the winter chill, his bed felt too big. Too empty. 

At least he could think of an easy remedy. 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the love and support on the last chapter!

Slumped in front of his office desktop, Bruce pulled up the file of information he gathered the night before. It wasn’t as ideal as using the computer in the cave, but he’d taken extra precautions to ensure he had a secure network. If anyone ever tried to dig into this computer, they’d find nothing but spreadsheets and emails. Everything bat related was secure and only accessible through a backdoor. 

Bruce scrolled through the images of the shoe print in Spina’s hallway. He pulled his cursor over the area of the imprint and brightened the image. Next, he overlaid the indented marks and ran a program. With any luck, he’d have a list of the makes of shoes that were potential matches. It was strange, he thought, that people’s shoes so often gave them away. Most people didn’t pay attention to them, or if they did just saw them as another fashion accessory. Shoes were revealing, though. In Bruce’s opinion, what a person was willing to walk around in all day said a lot about their personality. Did they opt for practicality? Style? Or maybe they just wore whatever looked the most expensive. There was a reason Bruce Wayne only wore wingtips and oxfords. The sight of him in army boots might be enough to crack the illusion. 

His computer beeped with the results of the search. Sure enough, it was a dress shoe that had pressed the print into Spina’s floor. The best match was an Allen Edmonds, from the line that came out in the fall. Bruce frowned. Those shoes were nearly four hundred dollars. For someone like Bruce, he wouldn’t bat an eye, but for anyone closely linked to Spina, that was a lot of money to drop on a pair of dress shoes that would be worn through in a year. That kind of money would be better spent on tough boots or a cheaper pair of dress shoes that could be easily replaced. 

It didn’t make sense. Bruce sighed and changed his direction to the security tapes from the twenty-four hours before he entered the apartment. Before he pressed play, he buzzed for Joanna. 

“Yes?”

“Jo,” Bruce said. “What are the chances you could bring your dear boss a Cappuccino?” 

“One sugar, extra foam?”

Bruce smiled. “I’ll write you a Christmas bonus as we speak.” 

He pressed play on the footage, laced his fingers behind his head, and leaned back. When the whole storm of the next few weeks blew over, Bruce needed a vacation. Preferably on some secluded island where no one could contact him. 

* * *

In the end, Bruce’s search had turned up almost empty. The camera on Spina’s floor conveniently cut out for a two-hour window in the middle of the day. Bruce managed to flag three potential suspects with the right build and dress on the lobby camera during that time-frame, but the footage was too grainy to tell anything definitive. He’d have to pull footage from the surrounding street to track and ID the suspects. For the time being, he compiled the data on a thumb drive. There was another pair of eyes he wanted to comb over the data, and he’d be seeing him shortly. Bruce tucked the drive into a pocket of his belt and climbed into the batmobile. 

He made a note to give Alfred an extra generous Christmas bonus, too. The interior of the car was immaculate, despite the fact Kal had bled out on the seat a few days before. 

Bruce reached Metropolis and made his way to the roof of the Daily Planet. He’d never seen the city from this vantage point before. It was strangely beautiful with its glass towers and sleek buildings and art deco. In every way, it was unlike Gotham. He found it difficult to believe that the two cities (which often seemed like different worlds) were only a bay apart. 

Even the rotating Earth-shaped sculpture that topped the Daily Planet looked nice with the city glow of the night. The logo did make Bruce’s chest tighten. Kent still hadn’t gotten back to him. He’d have to follow up tomorrow. 

As Bruce leaned against the wall of the stairwell, he mulled over his predicament with Kent. The reporter was an enigma. He seemed harmless. He’d done good work--important work--as a reporter. His past was clean. But the fact that he hadn’t made any demands worried Bruce. This was the kind of thing he’d rather cut out at the root. The longer he allowed it to grow, the more clean up he’d do later. What if Kent told someone else? He was undoubtedly digging into Bruce and collecting solid, concrete proof that he was the Bat. No one would believe an unfounded accusation and Kent was smarter than to make one. Bruce rocked his weight onto his heels. He couldn’t rule out the possibility that Kent would sell him out, either. Bruce knew what reporters made and there was a list of people with deep pockets that would give anything to take down Batman, one way or another. Bruce  _ could  _ name his price first--that had been his gut reaction when Kent learned--but the problem still remained: he couldn’t pay Kent to forget. No matter how much Bruce gave him, or how regularly, there was always the possibility that someone else would come around and give him more. 

Bruce was so wrapped up in his thoughts, he didn’t notice Kal until he was almost next to him. 

“Something on your mind?” Kal asked. His cape swung behind him as he walked over. 

Bruce nodded once. “I guess you could say that.” Kal opened his mouth to reply, but Bruce cut him off. “It’s not important right now.”

Kal made a hum of disapproval. “Are you sure, B?”

“Does I look like I’m a teenage girl at a sleepover?” Bruce crossed his arm. Maybe he’d been a little harsh, but he was in no mood to spill his feelings. 

Kal chuckled lightly, thankfully. “I don’t know B, you might be surprised what teenage girls talk about at sleepovers. Lois once told me she wrote her first piece for her middle school paper after a sleepover at her friend’s place. One of the girls let slip that she’d seen the band teacher helping himself to the bake sale funds. Lois tracked the story and--long story short--the teacher got suspended.”

“Hmm.” Bruce tried not to clench his teeth. In the papers, Superman and Lois Lane always seemed...unreal. Like they weren’t actual people who spoke to each other, but instead were mythical figures. Legends for the modern-day. But to hear that they actually spoke about normal things? That felt different. Kal had even dropped the ‘Miss Lane’ bit he used on the news. What was the exact nature of their relationship?

“Well,” Bruce said, shifting the topic. “You said you had intel?”

Kal nodded. “I can’t speak to how accurate it is--the source has been out of crime for nearly six months now--but I’d wager it’s sound information. A sea-can full of weapons, likely with more Kryptonite bullets, is supposed to be loaded off a cargo ship tonight. It’s mixed in with a regular shipment from overseas. I doubt the ship’s crew even know what they’re carrying. 

“From here, it’s supposed to be loaded on a train that runs across to Central City. But I can’t help thinking: what good would those weapons do down in Central?”

“It’s a ruse,” Bruce said. 

“Yep.”

“Any clue if they’ll hit the train or the ship?”

“No idea,” Kal said. “They’re on the ship at the moment, but I’m afraid of the fallout if we intercept.”

Batman and Superman busting their way onto an unsuspecting cargo ship might not be the best move. The laws around superheroes were still unclear. Stopping a mugging was one thing, but searching every cargo ship in the bay? That would cross a line. 

“So we wait, then. Step in the minute the perps intercept.” 

Kal nodded in agreement. “It’s not usually my style, but discretion is key on this one. If we spook them, it’ll only drive them further underground.”

Bruce cracked a smile. “I guess you called the right person for the job, then.”

Kal’s cheeks flushed. “Of course. There’s no one else I’d rather be here with.” 

“Me neither,” Bruce admitted. He cleared his throat and carried on before Kal could reply. “I also have some info for you about the Spina case. I might need some assistance ID’ing some suspects.”

“I’m always happy to help.” Kal smiled. 

Damn him and his dimple.

“We should get going, though. I don’t know when the shipment is due in. I got a pretty big window of time.”

“Right.” 

“Want a lift?”

Bruce’s heart fluttered. Kal--the bastard--was smirking at him. “I’ll meet you there.”

* * *

For the better part of an hour, Bruce and Kal watched the era where the shipping yard met the railway in comfortable silence. The winter wind brushed over Bruce. He pushed down his shiver. If he could see his nose, he was certain it would be red from the cold. His cheeks probably matched the colour. Batman with rosy cheeks--now that would be a sore sight. 

Kal, on the other hand, didn’t so much as flinch when an icy gust rumpled his hair. His cape fluttered. His hands and face were bare, but there wasn’t the slightest bit of colouring in his skin to suggest he felt the cold. 

Bruce tried not to envy him. It was difficult on a night like this. 

Just before ten, a cargo ship finally reached the dock. 

Bruce tensed. “Is it--?”

Kal narrowed his eyes and nodded. “It is.” 

Bruce considered the situation. “Hm.” It didn’t add up.

“What is it?”

“It doesn’t make sense,” Bruce admitted. “They likely won’t unload the cargo til morning.”

“My source seemed certain that the train would come tonight--I did check the schedules. There’s two tonight that reach Central at some point. The first is due in half an hour. The second won’t be here until two and it only goes through Central on it’s way to the West coast.”

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. It didn’t make sense. “I guess our best option is to pull the weapons from the ship now.”

Kal nodded slowly in agreement. “I should’ve dressed for a stealth job. Do you think I’d look good in black?”

“You know what they say: black flatters everyone. It’s slimming, too.” Bruce couldn’t help but smile. 

The two of them took off (Kal flying and Bruce swinging) toward the ship. It was dark now. Most of the crew had left. Bruce followed at Kal’s heels as he drifted through the rows of shipping containers. His head turned as he methodically scans each container. Bruce directed his attention elsewhere--he needed to keep watch for anyone who might see them, crew or criminal or otherwise. 

“Here,” Kal finally said in a low voice. He pointed to a green sea can on top of a column of three. At first glance, it didn’t look any different from the other ones, but when Bruce looked closer, the shade was...off. Darker than the others. 

“I’ll open it, but you’ll have to go in and check it out. It’s lined with lead,” Kal explained. He lifted off the ground with no effort and floated up through the air. When he reached the doors, he positioned himself behind the steel and pried the metal locks open as if they were made of paper. “Do you need a lift?” 

Bruce reached up and lifted his boot onto a platform, fired a cable, and pulled himself into the open container. “I can manage,” he said. 

Kal’s chuckle sounded from behind the metal door. 

Bruce took in the contents of the container. It certainly wasn’t holding the car parts the logo claimed it did. Instead, it was mostly empty--only a pile of weapons in the far corner and a crate with an eerie green glow. 

“It’s the right container,” Bruce called to Kal, “but don’t come in. There’s Kryptonite.” 

Bruce moved deeper into the container. The green glow bounced off the walls. He reached out a hand to touch the crate--to open it and see what he was dealing with.

“B!” Kal’s voice was terse. “We’ve got company.”

Without thinking, Bruce sprinted out and jumped from the container to the deck of the ship. He rolled with his landing. Sure enough, half a dozen men clad in dark outfits were on the other side of the boat. Their low voices echoed through the rows of metal. So far, it seemed they were unaware they weren’t alone. 

Bruce shifted into night vision mode.  _ Shit.  _ They had weapons, already. It was unlikely they’d have Kryptonite bullets yet, but given what happened in Gotham, Bruce couldn't rule it out. 

“Kal,” Bruce whispered, not wanting to alert the men, “I need you to close the container. Weld it shut. Get it out of here.” The risk of more illegal and deadly weapons flooding the market was too great. 

Without waiting for Kal’s response, Bruce crept forward. He moved through the shadows, as he did best. His cover didn’t last long, though.

The metal of the sea can creaked as Kal shut it. The group of men dropped their chatter and turned. A second later, red light bounced off the metal and cast its light over Bruce. 

_ Shit. _

The next moments blurred together. Behind Bruce, the metal of the shipping container creaked as Kal hauled it into the air. In front of him, the men shouted and rushed forward. Bullets ricocheted and tore through the other containers.

“Is that the fucking Batman?” one man called.

“The fuck is he doing in Metropolis?” another asked. 

They didn’t seem overly concerned with getting an answer. The rain of bullets continued. 

Bruce used the rows of containers as a maze--he tossed a Batarang behind him, clipping one man’s arm, and led the rest into the labyrinth. He needed to separate them. Take them one by one. 

For the first four men, his strategy worked. He took them down with a Batarang, a swift kick to the gut, an uppercut, and the blunt end of a discarded gun to a perp’s head. The last two were harder to find--they didn’t make themselves apparent. They used the shadows to their advantage too. 

Bruce turned a corner. He realized his mistake a moment too late. A dull thud rang through his head--his world spun and his ears rang. Someone had climbed a container and jumped down. Hit him in the head. With a gun? Metal pipe? Bruce didn’t know. 

He tried to find his balance and focus. He raised his hands to fight. From behind him, another shot rang. He ducked. The bullet whirled past the side of his head, too close for comfort. His suit  _ was  _ bulletproof (cowl included) but he didn’t want to put that to the test. Not at this close a range. 

The two men had Bruce disoriented and cornered. Bruce tried to throw a punch to knock the stocky man in front of him away, but instead, the man countered and pushed Bruce’s hand away. 

His injured wrist screamed in protest at the movement. Jolts of white pain sparked up Bruce’s arm. His stomach rolled. His world clouded. 

“Superman,” Bruce whispered. 

A fraction of a second later, a red-blue-blur swam across his vision. The men were gone. Bruce leaned back against a container and took a breath.

“B,” Kal said, his handsome features wrought with concern. “You’re hurt.”

“”M fine. I just need to get home.”

Kal’s eyes swept over him. “You’ve got a concussion. And your wrist is fully broken, now, not just fractured.”

Bruce tried to bat Kal away. He felt exposed like this; he hated the raw vulnerability. “I just need to get home.”

“You need a hospital.”

He shook his head and winced. “It’d raise too many questions. They’d see my old injuries. Ski accidents don’t give you scars like mine.”

Kal reached out for Bruce but hesitated. He pressed his mouth into a line and his forehead creased. “I--I have another idea if it’s alright with you.”

“No hospitals,” Bruce insisted. 

“No hospitals,” Kal promised. “But how would you feel about a trip up North?”

Did he mean what Bruce thought he did? “I don’t want to get in your way.”

Kal shook his head. “You helped me, B. Let me help you.”

Bruce sighed and gave in. 

  
Kal looked up at Bruce. His cheeks were slightly pink. “I’ll have to carry you. And I don’t think you can turn down my offer, this time.”


	10. Chapter 10

Bruce expected Kal to be cool to the touch. But as he wrapped his blue-clad arms around Bruce, he felt only warmth. Gingerly, Bruce shifted to find a comfortable position. 

“You alright?”

“Hmm.” Bruce closed his eyes and ignored a slow roll of nausea. “Make it fast.” Kal moved to take off, but Bruce’s world only twisted more. “On second thought, maybe take it slow.”

“Whatever you say, B,” Kal said. “Just don’t puke on my suit. It’s a pain to clean.”

Distantly, Bruce was aware they were floating. It should’ve freaked him out. Somehow, it felt impossible to worry when Kal’s arms were holding him steady. “You can send me the cleaning bill.”

Kal laughed dryly. “It’s not like you can’t afford it.”

* * *

They reached the arctic after about half an hour in the air. Or so Bruce thought, at least. It was hard to gauge the passing of time with a head injury, but he was fairly certain he hadn’t outright passed out. 

“Here we are,” Kal said softly as he landed. 

Before Bruce stood an intricate cascade of ice crystals. They wove together and jutted out against the bare landscape. They shone under the unhindered light of the arctic stars. “Kal,” Bruce whispered. “It’s beautiful.” A dry gust of wind swept over the land and stirred up snow in its wake. Bruce shivered. There was nothing on the tundra to break the gale--no tree nor brush nor cliff. As he stared out into the grey, he could see nothing, spare the horizon that split the dark sky from the grey earth. Bruce, in all his travels, had never been so isolated from society. On the rest of the planet, there was always  _ something _ to remind him there had been others there before him, even if it was only the light tread of a trail or an arrow carved into the side of a rock. 

Kal’s mouth slipped into an uncertain line. “It’s designed to look like my birth planet.”

_ Krypton. _ Even the name sounded foreign in Bruce’s head. But he supposed everything was a touch different at the moment. He tried to take a step forward, toward the fortress, but his head throbbed as if his brain pushed against his skull. “Ahh.” Bruce inhaled sharply. 

That, apparently, was the wrong choice too. His lungs protested the fiercely cold air. It was as if someone slammed their boot into his chest. A dry cough pressed up against his chest. “Fuck.”

Kal’s eyebrows raised in alarm. Before Bruce could make sense of what was happening, the world around him shifted, and he opened his eyes to the glittering white inside of the crystalline fortress. 

Bruce sat on the floor and tugged off his cowl. He focused his attention on his breathing. He had to keep it steady and calm.

“Sorry, B. I didn’t think about how cold it was out there,” Kal said. 

“‘S fine,” Bruce mumbled. The inside was cool too, but nowhere near as cold as the painful frigid air of the arctic at night in December. 

Kal paused for a moment; his eyes looked glassy and distant. In the strange, white crystal light, Kal looked ethereal. “I’ve never brought anyone here before,” he said. 

There are a million answers Bruce could’ve given to Kal. He could have expressed his gratitude. He might’ve asked about Lois Lane. Even a remark about the beauty of the fortress would have sufficed. Instead, Bruce said: “Oh.” 

With a grin, Kal pulled his eyes off Bruce and instead helped him get back to his feet. “I’ll give you the grand tour after, but there’s something I think you’ll enjoy more first.” 

Bruce followed Kal’s billowing cape (how it managed to flow like that when there was no wind, Bruce would never know) through the hollow interior of the fortress. It all seemed so impersonal to Bruce. He didn’t exactly expect there to be photos plastered over the walls, but it seemed strange there was no hint of any personal items. It couldn’t have been very comfortable, but then again, perhaps Kal didn’t need comfort. Or perhaps Kryptonian culture rejected creature comfort. Or--

“Alright, B, here we are,” Kal said. He gestured to a hollowed-out crystal with a flat sort of bed--like the kind you’d find in a doctor’s office--in the centre. 

Bruce eyed the chamber. “Do I…?”

“Just get in,” Kal said. 

If it had been anyone else, Bruce would’ve asked endless questions about the crystal and how it worked and what to expect. But he trusted Kal implicitly. “Do I need to remove my armour?”

Kal nodded slowly. “It would be best.”

Bruce started to remove the suit, piece by piece, but when he got to the gauntlet on his injured wrist, he winced. The lock mechanism was damaged--crushed shut. Ordinarily, a little force would do the trick, but Bruce couldn’t put pressure on it tonight. He looked up at Kal, his stormy blue eyes wrought with concern. “A little help?”

“Are you gonna bill me for the damage?” Kal asked, a light smirk tracing over his face. 

“I think we can call it even.”

Kal reached forward and wrapped his hands around the gauntlet. With a tug, the thick material split apart in Kal’s hands, as if it were made of paper. He held the splintered gauntlet somewhat awkwardly, clearly unsure of where to put the broken element. “You can head in.”

Bruce took a deep breath and pulled off the last pieces of his suit. He felt exposed—standing there in only thermal leggings and undershirt—but Kal averted his eyes. Bruce couldn’t honestly say he’d have the same resolution if their positions were swapped. He  _ hadn’t  _ had the same will when Kal was the one who lay injured in the cave. 

“Wait,” Bruce said. He reached down to his discarded suit, found his belt, and pulled out the flash drive. “Before I forget—this is the information about Tony Spina.”

Kal took the drive and gestured to the crystal. 

Bruce stepped inside. The subtle background hum of the fortress snapped into nothingness. Only the sound of Bruce’s footsteps echoed off the sleek edges. His heart thundered and his breath sounded more like a wind storm. He sat on the cot, swung up his feet, and rested his head. The surface wasn’t rough like he expected, but instead, his whole body sank slightly into the material. Even the Ritz didn’t have beds that could rival this. 

“Close your eyes,” Kal said. “It’s going to be a bit warm.”

Bruce followed Kal’s instructions. A moment later, a warmth flooded over Bruce, like sunlight at the height of summer. er Bruce, like the sun at the height of summer. The aches in his body evaporated. The swelling in his wrist subsided; his head no longer throbbed. Even the tension knotted in his back unravelled. 

Just as quickly as the warmth started, it shut off. Bruce slowly opened his eyes. His wrist still had a greenish tinge of bruising, but it was nowhere near the ugly purple-black colour it had been. When he stood, his head no longer ran. The slight ache was no worse than a hangover. Only Bruce’s lingering exhaustion remained, which was possibly worse than before. Wow,” he said as he flexed his wrist. 

Kal chuckled. “I take it that it helped?”

“What do I have to do to get one of these in the cave?”

Kal gave him a sheepish grin. “This is one of a kind, unfortunately. Only works for minor injuries, too. Just speeds up the healing process.”

Bruce nodded. It made sense, he thought, especially given his exhaustion. 

Kal stared at the crystal. “I’ve thought about replicating the technology—for hospitals, you know? But I can’t. I can’t, B.” His shoulders sagged. 

“You can’t replicate it?” 

“I can’t give it away.” He looked older than Bruce had ever thought of him: weathered in a way that Superman simply shouldn’t be. “It would take almost nothing to tweak the technology or the worst. I could give hospitals the chamber for healing, and by the end of the month we could have the equivalent of a new nuclear bomb.”

Bruce nodded solemnly. He understood. As much as he wanted to save everyone and do everything in his power to help, there were lines that were too precarious to toe. 

Kal cleared his throat. “Anyway,” he said, “I think I promised you a tour?”

“I’d like that.”

Bruce followed Kal through the halls (if he could even call them that) of the fortress. Without the pain of his head to distract him, everything seemed even more brilliant. More bright. There were intricate trinkets and devices that Bruce couldn’t even begin to guess their purpose. More than anything, the amount of empty space surprised Bruce. Even the rooms in his manor that weren’t in use were still decorated, but here there were just hollow crystalline rooms. 

“I plan to fill them, one day,” Kal said. “There are planets out there with beings that need help.”

“You’d turn it into a refuge?”

“Of course,” he said. He steadied his brow, determined. “If any out there need a home, I’d welcome them.”

“ Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,” Bruce recited.

“Exactly.”

Bruce understood where the resolve came from--Kal was a refugee on Earth. 

It was a strange sort of intimacy to see Kal’s home. The place where Superman hung up his cape and kicked up his boots at night. Even more than that, Bruce was seeing the last vestiges of his planet. Bruce pressed his lips together. How did Kal live like this?

They rounded a corner to a translucent screen and Kal smirked. “I think you’ll like this, B.” 

“Oh?”

Kal pulled the thumb drive with the Spina case from his pocket. “Check this out.” He placed the drive on the level surface that lay perpendicular to the screen. A beam of light opened up and the drive lifted an inch off the table, suspended in the light. The rest of the tabletop came to life, too. Pinpricks of light emerged from the table. 

“Oh,” Bruce repeated. It was a keyboard, though not one in any language Bruce had ever seen. The script wasn’t one of Earthly origin. 

The crystals were a computer. 

“Told you,” Kal said, a hint of smug pride at the edge of his voice. “And look--”

The file footage sparked to life on the screen. The colouring was off--it was a shade whitewashed--but it was otherwise exactly the same as it had shown on Bruce’s computer. Kal moved his fingers over the keyboard and only the light tap of his fingertips against the crystal filled the room. 

“Okay,” he said. The grainy figures of the possible suspects glowed blue. “This will take some time, but it should give us their identities.”

“How? The footage was horrible.” Bruce’s head burned with a million questions. He could stay and pester Kal for years about how everything functioned, and he suspected he’d still be dissatisfied with the answers. 

“I don’t exactly know all the details.” Kal rubbed the back of his hair. “Gait recognition is part of it, but it’ll also pull footage from all other cameras in the area to cross-reference. Hopefully one of them will have better quality, or we can at least get a license plate or something.”

“That’s incredible.”

“It is.”

“And also another piece of technology you can never share.”

Kal nodded. “Can you imagine? What would happen if a dictator could identify every person who came to a protest, beyond a shadow of a doubt?” His voice rose towards the end, a note of stress weaving its way in. 

Bruce rested his hand on Kal’s arm. “It’s okay,” he whispered. 

Kal closed his eyes and took a breath. “I know. I know. It’s just… difficult, to know I could help people, but I can’t.”

“That’s part of being human,” Bruce said. He flushed at his words. Superman, to Bruce, had always been untouchable. He was an ally to humanity, but he wasn’t part of it. Kal, on the other hand...Bruce didn’t know when his view had shifted. When he’d moved out of the mental category of ‘other’. Perhaps it was the name itself that did it. 

Kal reached forward. His fingers danced over Bruce’s free hand. “I know, B.” He leaned forward, his head hanging down. “It doesn’t make it any easier.”

“No,” Bruce agreed, “no it doesn’t.” His heart hammered. With Kal standing so close, he could hardly think straight. His dark curls, his clear skin, the curve of his lips--it was all too much. Kal even smelled faintly like ozone, like electricity, like lightning in a bottle. Bruce, without thinking, moved his hand from Kal’s arm and instead cupped his face. He ran his thumb over the line of Kal’s jaw.

“B,” he whispered. “You’re hurt.” 

Bruce shuddered. He could feel Kal’s breath. “I’m fine,” he insisted. “I promise.”

Bruce couldn’t tell who made the next move. He only felt the force of them crashing together, wrapping around each other, and holding on for their lives. His lips found Kal’s and Kal’s hands found his body. He tugged on Kal’s lip and Kal pulled Bruce even closer until they were pressed together. He could feel Kal’s heart thumping in his chest and he could feel something else--

“SEARCH COMPLETED.”

They jumped apart, both startled by the noise. Bruce caught his breath.

“It can wait,” Kal promised, “we can deal with it tomorrow.” His lips were pink and his hair was rumbled. His cape was crooked. “I’ll shut it down.”

But as he reached for the computer, the screen flashed again. 

“Best match,” the flat voice said, “Lex Luthor.”

Kal’s face fell. “Fuck.”

Bruce adjusted his shirt and flattened his hair. “This can’t wait.”

“No,” Kal agreed. “It can’t.” 

Bruce’s heart fell, but he hadn’t expected anything less. Luthor was a dangerous man, and anything he was up to deserved immediate investigation. As much as Bruce wanted to see how much more he could rumble Kal’s Superman persona, it would have to wait. 

“We should get back,” Kal said.    
“We should,” Bruce agreed. 

“We can come back again sometime.”

Bruce smiled. “I’d like that.” He would, indeed, like that very much.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took longer than expected! I had a really hard time getting the conversation right, but hopefully I've found the balance.
> 
> Please see the endnotes for a content warning for this chapter. Nothing happens, but the nature of the misunderstandings leads Bruce to misinterpret a situation. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has left comments! I read each and every one of them. They really make my day.

When Kal offered to take over the Luthor investigation, Bruce agreed. Happily. He knew that Batman had a reputation: he would always be a gruff loner in the eyes of others. Most people probably thought he was an ‘if you want something done right, do it yourself’ kind of guy. And that was true--to a point. He had too much on his plate to do everything right himself. So, when he had the chance, he was more than happy to pass along some work to anyone who was more knowledgable. Alfred with the estate. Marie with the party.

And Kal with Luthor. 

Bruce had way too much going on to dig into the case, and he didn’t have the same familiarity with the man that Kal did. He trusted him. And, whenever Kal found a lead, he promised to loop Bruce in. For the time being, Bruce would focus on Tony Spina and the Kryptonite weapons. It was more than enough with both the party coming up and the Clark Kent problem. 

In his room, Bruce sighed. The Gotham sky was still dark, but that was more due to the time of year than the time of night. Or morning. Or whenever. His point was that there were likely joggers waking up at this hour to run laps around the park. 

He stretched out in his bed. His body ached, but it wasn’t anything ibuprofen, water, and sleep couldn’t stave off. He had Kal to thank for his relative lack of pain, too. If it weren’t for his technology, Bruce would be out of commission for much longer than he could afford to be. 

Bruce also had the memory of Kal’s hard body--his muscles flexing under Bruce’s hands. His messy hair and roguish grin. 

In some other life, Bruce might be free to devote all his time and energy to Kal. If he really was the empty-headed playboy the world thought he was, then he’d certain fill his time daydreaming about his romantic pursuits. 

But as Bruce Wayne--as Batman--he didn’t have the time to indulge like that. So (as much as he hated to) he pushed the thought of Kal out of his head and came back to the most pressing issue: Clark Kent. The extraordinary pain and unlikely wildcard. The reporter didn’t even have the decency to return Bruce’s call. 

Bruce sat on the edge of his bed and sighed. The weight of the week nagged at his head. His muscles ached deep into his bones. The fact that Kent was forcing Bruce to make the first moves was unsettling. If the other man had made his wants clear, Bruce could work with that. Instead, Kent was stringing him along. Manipulating him like some sort of puppet. 

Bruce needed to end it. He needed to force Kent’s hand--get him to show what he wanted. After that, Bruce could shut him down. 

When it was finally a decent hour, Bruce picked up his phone and dialled the number for the Planet. 

“Hello?” Kent’s voice was entirely too chipper. 

“Kent,” Bruce said, drawing out the name. “It’s Brucie. You never returned my call.”

“I--what do you mean?”

Bruce rolled his eyes. “I get it, you’re a busy guy. I’m a busy guy.”

“You can say that again,” Kent replied with a light chuckle that made Bruce’s blood boil. 

“Do you think you could make time in your schedule for dinner? I’d like to talk.”

“Bruce…”

_ Fuck him _ . Bruce tensed his jaw. How dare he sound soft? Kent might’ve fooled others with his mild-mannered-report shtick, Bruce wasn’t so easily swayed. 

“Dinner. Tonight.” Bruce wasn’t letting Kent worm his way out of this one. He needed to speak to the man. Find out what he knew and plan how to deal with it.

Kent said nothing.

“I’ll send a car.”

“I--alright.” He paused for a beat. “I’m looking forward to it.”

Bruce ended the call and chucked his phone onto his bed. His pulse thundered through his body. Even though he was still painfully tired, Bruce threw on a sweatshirt and stormed downstairs. 

In the foyer, Alfred was sitting in a plush armchair, a cup of coffee in one hand and an e-reader in the other. “Rough night, Master Wayne?”

“More like a rough morning.”

“So the night was pleasant, then?” Alfred didn’t look up from the screen. Bruce vaguely wondered what he was reading--with Alfred, it could be anything from  _ Crime and Punishment  _ to  _ 50 Shades of Grey. _

“What are you getting at?”

“I couldn’t help but notice who dropped you off, Master Wayne.”

“Oh.” Bruce’s face flushed with heat. “We had a mission together.”

“And do you anticipate having more… missions together?”

“I don’t know,” Bruce said. He sighed, slightly. “But I hope so.”

Alfred tipped his chin. “Good.”

When Bruce entered the cave, he went straight to the punching bag. There was a simple sort of pleasure in beating the sand until his hands and head were numb. The movements he made were simple and direct--strike and breath and strike again. If only the rest of his life was so straightforward. 

* * *

Bruce took his own car that night.

He could’ve called for a private driver to take Kent to the restaurant, or even hired a limo to drive the two of them around Metropolis, but neither of the options seemed right. At the simplest level, Bruce didn’t want anyone to overhear their conversation. Their  _ private _ conversation, he amended. By meeting Kent part in private and part in public, he could steer their conversation more easily. If the contents of a private conversation leaked, the results could be devastating. But if a public conversation was overheard? No one would believe it. And Kent would have to watch his tongue if he wanted his exclusive. 

Besides, he needed Kent to understand one thing above all else: Bruce was in control. Control of the conversation, control of the information, even in control of his own vehicle. Power was ninety percent an illusion--one that Bruce intended to maintain.

When he pulled up to the curb outside Kent’s apartment, the reporter was already standing outside. He cleaned up well, Bruce had to admit. He’d shed his usual baggy suit for a well-fitting pair of slacks, a light blue dress shirt, and a midlength grey wool coat. 

“Hi, Bruce,” he said, his mouth lilted up in a smile. 

Bruce’s skin crawled. “Kent.”

Kent slipped into the car with an uncomfortable familiarity. Bruce gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles drained to white. 

“I have to admit,” Kent said. “I was a bit surprised when you called. I didn’t expect to hear anything from you so soon.”

“Really.”

“Not that it’s bad! I mean, it was just unexpected.”

Bruce ground his back molars together. “Was it.” He might single-handedly keep his dentist in business. 

“You just surprised me,” Kent said, his voice soft. 

Bruce glanced over his shoulder. Kent didn’t look tense, or even uncomfortable. He looked almost… at ease, sitting in the passenger seat of Bruce’s Rolls Royce. His eyes were cast up, toward the tops of the highrises they passed. 

When Bruce pulled up in front of the restaurant, he finally got a reaction from Kent. The reporter paled slightly and his bright eyes widened behind his glasses. “ _ La Perle? _ Bruce… this is too much. I’m not dressed.” He rubbed the back of his neck. 

Bruce smirked.  _ Gotcha.  _ “Don’t worry. You’re fine.” 

With his practiced playboy ease, Bruce tossed the key and slipped a tip to the valet. Kent trailed behind him, following Bruce’s lead. It was just as Bruce had expected: Kent didn’t know how to act here. He might be living in Metropolis and privy to sensitive information, but he was still a country boy at heart. He’d never be completely comfortable in a place like this. 

“Table for two,” Bruce said to the hostess as he slipped inside.    
The young woman didn’t look up--she focused on the list and flipped her sleek brown hair over her shoulder. “What name is the reservation under?”

“I don’t have one.”

The woman looked up, her eyes filled with annoyance. “Sir, I’m afraid--” her eyes widened and lips parted-- “Mr. Wayne! Please, follow me,” she said, her cheeks pink. 

Bruce let her lead them through the restaurant. As they wound through the tables, more than a few heads turned in their direction. A few low whispers rumbled. 

“I tried to take Lo--I tried to come here once,” Kent mumbled. “Called three weeks out. They said they couldn’t fit me in.”

Bruce shrugged. “I guess it’s a good thing you’re here with me then.”

Before they sat, they handed their jackets to the hostess, who rushed off immediately after. Bruce slipped into the side against the wall--this way he had the advantage. He could see the whole restaurant. Kent would only see him. 

“It is,” Kent said. “It’s good, I mean.” He flashed his teeth to Bruce in an awkward sort of smile. 

Bruce could strangle him.

Kent’s mid-western smile sagged. “Um, Bruce? Is everything alright? You just seem… off.”

“And you’re the expert?”

“You know I didn’t mean it that way.” His eyes focused on Bruce as if he were analyzing every detail. “But nevermind, I guess.”

“Hmm.” Bruce leaned back in his seat and crossed his arms. 

“So,” Kent continued. “Uh, how was your day at work?”

Bruce let out a grunt of annoyance. “Look, I didn’t ask you here to talk about my day at work, okay?” He knocked his hand against the top of the table--not loud enough to make a scene, but enough to make a statement. “What do you want?”

Kent let out a puff of laughter. “What do I want? Bruce, I thought that was obvious…” Kent’s hand reached forward, toward the table. His face softened and, for a moment, Bruce felt warm. 

“I want you,” Kent said. He covered Bruce’s hand with his.

Bruce yanked his hand back as if he’d been burned. “No,” he spat. He shoved his chair back and snapped up. A few heads turned.  _ Damn it _ . Bruce’s lip twitched in anger.  _ Let them stare. _

Kent seemed frozen. His mouth opened and closed without him saying a word. 

“I don’t know what kind of man you think I am, Kent. But I won’t cross that line.” 

“B--”

“Don’t call me that.” Bruce shook his head. His head rang and his muscles tensed. How had he been so blind? Kent wore his desires on his sleeve--he should’ve seen this coming. “Tell everyone, if you want. I will never go there.”

Kent stood now, too. His brow furrowed. “You asked me, here,” he said, his tone more commanding than Bruce had heard before.

“And clearly that was a mistake. Tell everyone, if you want. I’m done here.” Bruce turned on his heel and stormed out. The whole restaurant was staring, now.

“Bruce!”

“Fuck you, Kent,” Bruce said. He didn’t bother with his jacket. He threw open the doors to  _ La Perle  _ and let the cold air of Metroplish wash over his skin. There was nothing he wanted more than to drown in the night. 

* * *

By the time Bruce reached the manor, he wasn’t as blind with hot, seething rage. Instead, he let his loathing simmer. As he drove too fast and too reckless, he did what he did best: planned. 

When he reached the manor, he didn’t even bother with the cave. He marched straight into his home office, picked up the phone, and punched in the familiar number. 

On the second ring, they picked up. “Hello?” The voice came through groggy--it was just after eleven. Perhaps the other man had been sleeping. 

“Lucius,” Bruce said. “I hope I didn’t catch you at a bad time.”

“Never, Mr. Wayne.”

Bruce leaned back in the desk chair and kicked a foot up, over the opposite knee. “Perfect. I was hoping you could help me with something.”

“Of course.”

“You see, I was thinking about the role of the media recently. It seems to play an important roll in today’s politics, don’t you agree?”

“Certainly.”

“What does that saying go again? ‘The medium is the message’?”

“And do you have a message, Mr. Wayne?”

Bruce grinned. “I do.”

“Well, then I’m happy to help you get it out. What can I do?”

“I was wondering, Lucius,” Bruce said, dragging his words out. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy the theatrics, “if you could tell me how much it costs to buy a newspaper?”

“Any paper, Mr. Wayne, or do you have a specific one in mind?”

Lucius knew him too well. Bruce drummed his fingers against his leg. “As a matter of fact, I do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains a scene where Bruce assumes that Clark is trying to blackmail him into having sex. Clark is obviously not, but be warned that Bruce doesn't know this yet.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And things are getting real messed up now!
> 
> Bonus points to you if you can guess the movie that inspired Bruce's comments about buying a newspaper :)

Bruce really wasn’t surprised when one of his financial managers met him in the morning. In fact, Bruce would have been a bit disappointed if someone  _ hadn’t  _ tried to talk him out of the deal. 

“Look, Mr. Wayne,” Gary said, holding his paper coffee cup in one gloved hand and trying to keep up with Bruce’s brisk pace down the streets of Metropolis. The sky overhead was a dull grey and the light flattened the details of the world. “You should reconsider.”

Bruce pushed his hands deeper into his pockets. The cold wind bit at his face, but he wasn’t about to turn down his head and give Gary the satisfaction of thinking he had a sensible bone in his body. “Should I?”

“The Daily Planet could lose  _ millions  _ every year.” 

“Then I should have enough to keep it running for what--sixty years?”

Gary shook his head. “Mr. Wayne--”

Bruce shrugged. “Consider it a… anthropologic investment.” 

Gary stopped in his tracks and blinked. “Do you mean philanthropic?”

“Sure. That.” Bruce gave Gary his biggest and dumbest smile. “Just doing my duty to provide truth to the people.”

“If that’s what this is about, we could find another company. The larger conglomerates are more profitable.”

“My mind’s been made up,” Bruce said. “Besides, we’re already here.” He looked up at the building. From the street, the globe that spun on the top looked so much smaller. Vaguely, Bruce wondered if Kal would hear the news. He seemed to have a certain fondness for this spot, though Bruce couldn’t exactly pinpoint why. Maybe it was the view, maybe it was the way that the metal Earth caught the sun. But those were only guesses. 

“Bruce…” Gary warned. 

“Lucius already pushed it through--” Bruce clapped Gary’s shoulder-- “and it’s rude to keep my new employees waiting.”

* * *

Bruce stood in Perry White’s office and adjusted his tie. Then he loosened it a smidge--he needed to look careless but in a just-so way. It was exhausting, honestly. 

Perry White entered his office looking dishevelled in a way that was definitely not on purpose. His hair (or what was left of it) stuck out around his ears. His white button-down has a coffee stain near the collar. Overall, he looked breathless and tired but the weariness suited the man. Bruce could imagine him looking nearly the same, only twenty years younger, working all night to break a story. 

“Mr. Wayne,” he said, sticking out his hand. 

Bruce shook it and gave White his best thousand-watt smile. “Please, call me Bruce.”

“Well, Bruce, I have to say you gave me a hell of a shock. I thought I was gonna be on some radio prank show.” He rubbed the back of his neck and shook his head slowly. 

Bruce barked out in laughter. “No, no, Mr. White. Besides, I’m afraid those shows are much too complicated for me. I always end up losing track of what exactly is going on.”

“Is that so?” White’s eyes widened a smidge. 

“Which is why I leave my company to be run by people much smarter than me. I intended to do the same here.” Bruce crossed his arms and gave White an earnest smile. It’d be cruel to give the man a heart attack a week before Christmas because he thought his beloved paper was in the hands of some idiot. 

White looked a little less pale. “Glad to hear that, Mr. Wayne. Bruce.”

Bruce leaned back against the desk. “Now, I know we can’t discuss this publicly until my people and your people cut through all the loose ends and tie up all the red tape, but I was hoping for a tour, at the very least. 

White’s left eye twitched. “Of course, Bruce. I’ll show you around.”

Bruce followed behind White, letting himself walk in a sort of airy way, as if his head was in the clouds and his feet only scraped the ground. As soon as they stepped out of the office, the volume of the floor dropped audibly. The normal shouts and debates dissipated into whispers and darts of eyes. Bruce, for the reporters, was an oddity. They might actively seek out people like him for features, or track down public figures for interviews, or break articles about his business dealings, but Bruce supposed it was a rarity for him to come to them--instead of the normal other way around. There must have been rumours flying around about why, exactly, their Editor-in-Chief was giving a Gotham playboy a personal tour, but at least most of the reporters had the decency to pretend to look disinterested. 

All, of course, except for one. Kent hadn’t taken his eyes off Bruce since he stepped out of White’s office. Kent was a ball of tension--everything from his shoulders to his jaw to his hands were locked and rigid. At first, he looked only confused, with his mismatched wide eyes and furrowed brow. But, after a moment, his eyes narrowed.

Bruce nodded at White, who showed him the sports section, and smirked to himself.  _ Gotcha, Kent. _

Whatever Kent might want to do, he couldn’t ignore the present truth: Bruce had linked them together. And now Kent was never going to be able to sever that tie. He could try and run the breaking news that Bruce Wayne and Batman were one in the same, but Bruce doubted he’d be bold enough to even try that angle. And, if he was, Perry would never let it run. Kent could try and publish it on his blog, or sell it to another paper, but no one would ever believe it--they’d assume he was just one of Bruce Wayne’s employees frustrated with his boss. Even if Kent quit (which Bruce doubted he’d do--the man was at least dedicated to his company) he could never escape the ‘disgruntled ex-employee’ cloud. He’d like to see Kent try and outmaneuver him now. 

“You know, Mr. White,” Bruce said, “I think I’m liking this place more and more every minute I spend here.”

“Glad to hear it, Bruce.” The man looked tired. Bruce mentally noted to add White to the list of his employees who deserved bonuses. “Now, if you'll follow me, I can show you our lifestyle section.”

After the tour and a final few words with White, while Bruce was waiting for the elevator and thinking about the shipment of kryptonite loose on the streets that he hasn’t been able to track down yet, someone grabbed his upper arm. 

He stopped himself from swinging back. The alarm bells in his head might be blaring, but Bruce forced himself not to react. Even if the adrenaline rush made him twitchy. Unceremoniously, the mystery person shoved him into the copier room and yanked the door shut. 

He was glad he didn’t throw a punch. In front of him wasn’t the Joker, or Mr. Freeze, or even so no-named thug trying to make a buck. It was a very pissed off looking red-headed woman. She was petite, barely coming up to his shoulder even with heels, but her sharp glare made Bruce want to shrink into his shoes. 

“You know,” he said, straightening his dishevelled suit jacket, “if you wanted to get me in here, you could have just asked.” 

The woman’s nostrils flared. “I don’t know what the  _ fuck _ you think you’re doing, but you need to end it right now.”

Bruce raised his hands. “Hey, hey. You’re the one who pulled me in here, if I remember.” 

“I’m gonna say this once and only once: leave Clark alone.”

_ Ah.  _ Why was everything always about Kent? “You must be Lois.”

“So you’ve heard of me.”

“I’ve heard of your work. Didn’t you win a...a whatever it is that’s like an Oscar?” 

Lane rolled her eyes. Her arms were crossed firmly in front of her and her mouth was so stepped in a frown that Bruce was certain it had to hurt. “You’re not the first to try and get me off your back with flattery. It won’t work.”

“Well--”

“Save it. Whatever you’re doing here, you need to stop it. Go back to your hellhole in Gotham, or wherever it is you crawled out of.”

“Ms. Lane, I’m not sure what I’ve done to you--”

“Not to me. To Clark.” She leaned in a fraction and lowered her voice. “Leave him alone.”

Bruce ground his molars. “Lane, I think you might not have the whole story.”

“Clark told me about you.”

Bruce felt his heart slide into his stomach.  _ Damn him. _ If Kent told Lane his secret, then he likely told someone else too. Of course, he had. It was his insurance--Bruce couldn’t just get rid of Kent, cause the story would still be out there. He swore out loud. Still, a part of his mind nagged him that something wasn’t adding up. Maybe Kent distorted the story to make himself seem more likeable. Bruce doubted someone of Lane’s calibre would be onboard for straight-forward blackmail. That would tank her career. 

“I’m looking out for my friend, alright? Leave him alone and drop whatever half-baked scheme you’re trying to come up with here.”

“Maybe you don’t know Kent as well as you’d like to think,” Bruce spat.   
“He’s too good for you.”

At that, Bruce let out a choked laugh. “Did he tell you what happened at the restaurant.”

Lane frown deepened, which Bruce hadn’t thought would be possible. “What else would I be talking about.”

Bruce hadn’t realized he’d leaned in so close to her. He took a step back and ran his fingers through his hair, pushing it back into place. Whatever Lane was going on about, it seemed she didn’t have the full story. Ideally, he’d like to tease out how much she really knew. But he didn’t have the time or energy for that, and she hadn’t levelled any real threats. If Bruce tried to press too hard, he might show his own hand first.

“Am I free to leave, Ms. Lane?”

She jerked her chin toward the door. “Gladly.”

At the door, Bruce paused with his hand on the handle. “This isn’t the last you’ll be seeing of me, I’m afraid.”

“Fuck off.”

Bruce turned his head and grinned. “ _ Gladly.” _

* * *

That night, Bruce went to the top of the GCPD headquarters and buzzed for Kal. Even though the last time he’d seen him was only two days ago, Bruce missed their banter. He missed the comfort of having Kal at his side. He even missed the stupidly bright colours of his suit and his sweeping red cape. 

More than anything, he missed his smile. That little grin Kal would give him out of the side of his mouth. Like he was sharing a secret with Bruce. 

_ Ugh. _ Bruce paced on the rooftop. He was sounding like a teenager. It didn’t help that he couldn’t get their kiss out of his head. The way Kal’s body moved. His soft hair and softer lips. His warm scent and--

The sound of boots crunching in the snow made Bruce whip his head around. 

Kal touched down across from him. His face wasn’t open and expressive, as usual. His mouth was pulled into a line and his jaw was set. 

“Kal,” Bruce said, walking forward.

“I don’t have any new intel on Luthor, Batman.” His voice sounded… strange. Put on. It was his ‘Superman’ voice--the tone he took to address crowds or direct emergency services or put some healthy fear into a delinquent. It wasn’t the tone he ever used one on one with Bruce.

“Oh. Well, that’s fine. I didn’t expect you to. In fact, I’d be surprised if you dug anything up so quickly.”

“So why did you buzz for me.”

Bruce blinked. He felt a warm flush run up his neck. “I wanted to see you.”

Kal let out a puff of air and shook his head. “I’m busy tonight, Batman. I’ve got people that need my help.”

“Oh.” Bruce went to push back his hair, but let his hand awkwardly hang by his side when he remembered he had on the cowl. “Don’t let me hold you up, then. I didn’t realize you were busy tonight--”

“Not just tonight. Unless there’s an emergency, I’m busy.”

Bruce’s chest felt too tight. He couldn’t take a full breath.

“I’ll contact you when I have the lead on Luthor,” Kal said. Without another word, he took off like a bolt into the night sky. 

What had changed? The other night, in the cave, he’d been so certain that Kal returned his feelings. Now…

Bruce shook his head. 

_ Aliens. _ He couldn’t guess at Kal’s motives. He wasn’t even human. Maybe Kryptonians approached love in an entirely different way.

As he dropped from the rooftop, he tried not to think about it. About Kal. About how hollow Bruce felt. 

Bruce failed miserably. 


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for all the lovely comments!! They motivate me to write faster and really mean a lot :)

Bruce willed the days leading up to the Christmas Eve gala to stretch out. If only they’d last forever. Although he was never a fan of the endless parties he had to attend, he usually didn’t  _ dread _ them either. A healthy sort of indifference was his usual attitude. The way he imagined most people felt about tedious work meetings. Something to be endured, but not a source of anxiety. They rarely left him with more than a slight headache and social exhaustion. 

But thinking of the Christmas gala made his gut lurch with nerves. He wasn’t just another frivolous attendee--he was the  _ host.  _ Everyone would be staring at him. Constantly. It’d be much harder to brush off the reporters with a single sound bite. It’d be harder still to brush off the models and socialites with thin compliments. 

Despite how much Bruce hated it all, he could never bring himself to cancel the party. It was a Wayne tradition, after all, started by his parents. And it did manage to draw in healthy funds for whatever charity he happened to pick (this year he picked a local grassroots organization that provided lunch for school children). 

Knowing it was all for a good cause did little to satiate his dread.

_ God _ . Bruce pinched his nose. Would he ever stop overthinking it?

Probably not. But still. He’d privately dread the event all he wanted. And, okay, maybe not so privately dread the event whenever Alfred was around. 

In the days leading up to it, he pushed himself into his training. In the cave, he’d lift and stretch and push and pull until his muscles ached and his brain stopped running at a hundred miles an hour. 

At night, he’d run and seek out crime to keep his mind off everything. That didn’t work as well--the cover of snow and cold snap seemed to drive a lot of the crime off the streets. Bruce leaned against the side of a building, folded his arms over his chest, and let out a childish huff. It wasn’t that he  _ wanted _ crimes to happen. In fact, he wanted the opposite really. But he welcomed any distraction that would come his way. Anything that would get his mind off the gala, however momentarily. 

Well, the gala and Kal. 

But Bruce was definitely not thinking about Kal. Not at all. Who needed him, anyway? Bringing more people into the fold only increased risk--Bruce had been shortsighted not to account for that before. Even when the kryptonite ammunition hit the market (which he was having no luck tracking down), he’d been blind to the risk it posed. It was difficult enough to look out for himself. He didn’t need to add babysitting an alien on top of his already too-long list of responsibilities. A few weeks ago, when Kal got himself shot, he hadn’t even thought of the risk his blood would pose if it fell into the wrong hands. Bruce didn’t need that kind of narrowmindedness on his team. 

Bruce would keep track of himself and himself alone. Life would be easier that way. 

* * *

The night before the gala, he suited up again. 

Alfred eyed Bruce while he adjusted the cowl. “Perhaps you should consider getting a good rest, for once, Master Wayne.”

“Gotham needs me.”

“It seems to me you need Gotham.”

Bruce sighed. “I can’t turn my back on my city.”

“I understand,” Alfred said dryly. “But perhaps consider where your energy is best spent.”

“I’ll see you later, Alfred.”

“See that you do, Master Wayne.”

Later, as Bruce rounded on another empty alley, he couldn’t help but wonder if Alfred had a point. He did need his energy for tomorrow. It was markedly harder to slap on a smile when exhaustion gnawed at his brain. Of course, he could also push himself to the other end of the spectrum where he was so tired that he nearly felt drunk. That would be an interesting time, for sure. At least the press could have a field day. 

Bruce sighed inwardly and resigned himself to (yet another) unsuccessful night. As he turned to head back to the batmobile, he heard a familiar swoop and a soft crunch of boots on snow.  _ Just end me now… _ Bruce stiffened and pulled his mouth into a hard line. “Superman,” he said without looking. “You have something on Luthor? I assume you wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

“Not on Luthor, no.” His voice was clear and cold and cut through the night. He cleared his throat. “Tony Spina is missing.”

“He’s been missing for weeks now.” Bruce closed his eyes and tried to drown out his seething annoyance at the other hero.

“Okay, well, here’s the thing--I might’ve found him.”

_ What.  _ Bruce rounded on his heel and stared at Kal. He at least had the decency to look sorry, his eyes cast down and a light frown that tugged down the corners of his full lips and--Bruce shook his head. He wasn’t going down this road again. “You  _ found  _ him.”

“Yes.”

“And you didn’t think to tell me?”

“Would you have listened?”

Bruce balked at that. “Obviously, I would have.” For whatever strain was on their relationship now, he couldn’t believe that Superman would think so little of him.

“I would’ve told you,” Superman said. “Eventually.”   
“Eventually.”

“I wanted to make sure my intel was solid first.”

“I could’ve helped you confirm it,” Bruce shot back. He pinched the bridge of his cowl-covered nose. “Why are you even telling me this?” The other hero had kept it to himself once, why didn’t he do it again?

Superman swallowed. “I tracked Spina to his ex-girlfriend’s apartment. I was just going to monitor--I never planned on getting involved until you were in the loop. But Spina disappeared during a break-in last night. When I spoke with Laura--that’s the ex--she had reason to believe he was in danger.”

“Do  _ you _ think he’s in danger?”

Superman nodded curtly. “Yes. I do.”

Bruce was going to strangle Superman. Right here. Right now. On a roof of some random apartment building two days before Christmas. 

Instead, he took a breath. In. Deep. And out again. “I can’t help you,” he said, his tone even despite the rage welling up in his chest. “Not tonight.”

“But--but B!”

“Don’t call me that.”

“A man’s life is at stake.” He clenched his jaw. 

The wind howled and rattled Bruce’s core. He was cold, damn it, and tired. Really fucking tired. He needed a break, as loathed as he was to admit it. 

“Whose fault is that?” Bruce stared at Superman. At Kal. 

“I thought you were supposed to be a hero.”

“None of this is my fault,” Bruce tore into Superman. “None of it.”

“Oh, I’m sure that’s what you’d like to believe.” Superman’s gaze narrowed and his nostrils flared. 

“I can’t save everyone--I don’t do this because I think I can save everyone.”

“So you’re not even going to try?”

“Did you try?” Bruce’s growl deepened. Overhead, grey cloud drifted across the hazy sky. 

“I did,” Superman said softly. His posture sagged. “I thought you knew me better than that. I always do.”

And, with that, Bruce was alone on the rooftop. Again. It seemed to be quickly becoming a habit. 

Bruce kicked at the snow. A hard piece of ice met his boot and skidded across the cement. Kal probably thought he was a sadistic asshole. Bruce would fully agree that he was an arse, but he wasn’t sadistic. He  _ couldn’t  _ go after Spina. Not tonight, at any rate. A search like that would take time and resources he didn’t have at the moment. Besides, according to Superman, Spina disappeared last night and--even though Bruce didn’t know exactly when the other hero had been made aware of that fact--Superman had sat on that information for a while. He’d searched on his own before coming to Bruce. Bruce was a backup plan, and he wouldn’t feel guilty for not being roped into poorly laid plans. He wouldn’t.

That night, as he stared at his bedroom ceiling and twisted himself into a nest of blankets, he told himself the same thing again. His stomach twisted too. Bruce sighed to himself and made a mental note to ask his doctor if there was anything he could do to prevent ulcers. God knows he needed it. 

When Bruce woke the next morning, his room was flooded with soft light. From the kitchen, the scent of coffee and pancakes and frying bacon wafted up. In his wrap of blankets, he felt warm in spite of the winter chill in his room. For a few glorious moments, he forgot that the gala was tonight. 

But of course, reality crashed down on him like a wave when he remembered what day it was. Bruce groaned and rubbed his face. As a kid, he’d equally dreaded the gala. It was horrid--he felt like a pet in his stuffy suit while the adults cooed over him for a few moments before turning back to their drivelling about tax cuts and gossips. In his late teens, when he started the tradition back up again, he actually hadn’t minded it. It was an excuse to blatantly drink (even though he was underaged) and make-out with models in closets. But, of course, that enjoyment was short-lived. He hadn’t enjoyed a gala since before he’d left for Tibet. 

All he could hope for was that this day went by as painlessly as possible. 

* * *

“Morning, Master Bruce,” Alfred said. 

Bruce grunted in acknowledgment. How could he sound so dry and chipper at the same time?

“Did you have a productive night?” Alfred set a plate teeming with food before Bruce. 

If Bruce’s manners were worse, he would’ve shovelled his mouth full instead of replying. But Alfred would wring his neck if he dared be so rude. “Not exactly,” he admitted. He took a bite of pancake, but as delicious as it was, the food sat in his gut like a rock. Instead, Bruce turned to his coffee. It wouldn’t do anything to quell his nerves, but at least it could stave off some exhaustion.

“Oh?” Alfred raised an eyebrow. Nosey bastard. 

Bruce set down his mug and ran his hands through his hair, making his bed-head stick up even more. “I saw Kal.” His cheeks warmed. “Um. I saw Superman.”

Alfred sat across from Bruce. “I take it that this wasn’t a welcome encounter.”

“No. Not exactly.” Bruce flopped back in his chair with a posture that probably offended Alfred. “We might’ve had a fight.”

“Related to the one you had last week?”

Bruce paused. “I never told you we had a fight then.”   
“You didn’t have to.”

Bruce let the weight of that sink into his chest. He straightened up and met Alfred’s eyes. “I don’t know what I was thinking,” he admitted quietly. “I mean--in my head, I had this image built up. I thought we could have a relationship. Or maybe the problem was that I hadn’t even considered a relationship outside of us just  _ being  _ together.”

“How so?”

“I’m an idiot.” Bruce bit his lip. “What was I thinking? It’s not like I could ever waltz into the gala with Superman on my arm. There’d be too many questions. It wouldn’t be a good look for either of us.”

Alfred eyed Bruce carefully. “A relationship can be just as meaningful outside of prying eyes.”

“I know,” Bruce snapped. “I know,” he repeated softly. “But what did I expect? He’s not even  _ human _ Alfred. It’s not like I could come back to him after the party and kick up my feet while we watched  _ Love is Blind  _ and ate pizza. I don’t even know if he loves the same way we do.”

“He’s told you that much?”

“I’ve inferred it.” Bruce took a tentative bite of his bacon. “He pushed me aside like I was nothing,” Bruce whispered. “It was humiliating. I can’t bring it up again.”

“Master Wayne, if I may be so bold," Alfred said, "love is always worth a second chance.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Doctor Strange voice* We're in the endgame now.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was so fun to write that I literally couldn't stop writing.

Glitzy fundraisers always made Bruce’s head hurt, doubly so when they happened to be Christmas themed, triply if he happened to be the host, and quadruply when he was actually expected to pay attention. 

Usually, he could get away with some dim-witted banter and bright smiles and a few drunken turns around the room. He’d pose for some pictures. The paparazzi would capture some decidedly un-posed (but unbeknownst to them still planned) photos of Bruce slipping into a limo that wasn’t his or spilling champagne on his Burberry jacket. But once he was home, he’d slip out of one suit and into another, taking to the city to burn off his pent up energy. The next morning, photos of him were sure to be circulating around twitter or plastered on tabloids, but he didn’t care. It was all an act. 

Tonight, he couldn’t get away from any of it. More than that, he wanted it go well, above all else. It was a party, sure, but it was a tradition and a fundraiser. If he made a scene (fake as it may be) a part of him couldn’t help but feel it would tarnish the legacy his parents created. Bruce sighed. How did he end up backing himself into corners like this? Just once, he thought he deserved an easy answer to his problems. 

In the back of his limo, he adjusted his bowtie, straightened his jacket, and pushed a loose strand of hair back into place. “How do I look?”

“Splendid, sir,” Alfred said dryly from the driver’s seat without looking back. 

“As long as you think so.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.” Alfred pulled the car up in front of the Gotham Ritz-Carlton, where the gala was being held.

“Too late for that,” Bruce said, his voice ringing with the loftiness he usually reserved for ‘Brucie’. 

Alfred didn’t reply immediately. “Do try and enjoy yourself tonight,” he said after a moment. “Lord knows you need it.”

Bruce gave Alfred a wan smile. “I can’t make any promises.”

“Master Wayne.”

“But I’ll try.”

Bruce took a steadying breath and pushed out the door. Immediately, a tsunami of camera-flashes washed over him. The lights on the red carpet were followed by a storm of noise—paparazzi and fans and rubberneckers were pressed up against the fences on either side, all calling to him for quotes and photos and autographs. For a fraction of a second, he froze, blinded by the lights and noise. But Bruce willed himself to smile, wave, and throw out his best look of easy fun. 

_Just a few hours._ He could do this. He really could. 

* * *

Bruce owed Marie a raise. Several raises, actually. From his spot in the entrance hall, he could see the entire place looked gorgeous—garlands of pine with red bows ran around the arches overhead; bouquets of holly and ivy sat in the center of each table; in front of the grand windows on the other side of the room stood a magnificent Christmas tree, strung with warm white lights and golden ornaments. Between the decorations and the gothic style of the hotel, Bruce could imagine he was two hundred years in the past and on the other side of the Atlantic. 

“Brucie,” a warm voice purred in his ear. 

Bruce fought against jumping as he was pulled from his thoughts.

Next to him stood Anna Hawthorne, dressed in a forest green floor-length gown. Her hair was pinned pack in a low bun with an intricate braid on the side. Only a few curls were left loose to frame her face. 

“Anna,” he said, kissing her cheeks in greeting, “lovely to see you.”

Her red lips curled in a wicked smile. “Last time we spoke we didn’t get to finish our conversation.”

“We’ll have to fix that,” Bruce said and leaned in. As she drew closer, his nose flooded with the heavy scent of her woody perfume. 

“We will. Maybe somewhere more private.”

Bruce let himself chuckle at that. To Anna, he’d just seem carefree. Privately, he was laughing at the absurdity of the whole situation. In all honesty, he couldn’t even remember what they’d spoken about when they met at the fundraiser a few weeks ago. He had more important things to worry about that night. 

But still. Here she was, a gorgeous woman, standing in front of him and wanting sneak away with him. And yet all Bruce could think about was a guy in a blue leotard who’d already blatantly rejected him. Bruce’s head ached. 

“As much as I’d love that,” he said, lowering his tone and reaching forward to tuck a curl behind her ear, “I, unfortunately, can’t go missing tonight. My name is on the bill.”

She pouted slightly but didn’t look altogether devastated. “I didn’t realize you cared so much about being a good host.”

“What can I say? I’m trying to get a head-start on my New Years’ resolutions. Do a 360.”

Anna reached up and straightened his bowtie. “Well, don’t change too much. I quite like you the way you are.”

“Mhmm.” Bruce gave her a smile so fake that he was certain she’d notice. He didn’t care if she did. “If you excuse me, Anna, I have to make my rounds. I just arrived, after all.”

Without waiting for a response, he stepped down into the main ballroom and lifted a flute of champagne off a tray on his way. God knows he needed it, tonight. He was never one to overindulge, but if a glass or two would take the edge off? He thought he’d earned it. The main room of the party might’ve been more subdued than the fanfare outside, but it was every bit as annoying. High, fake laughter struck his ears. Around a table, a smattering of socialites were prattling in about _something_ and (judging by their sneers) Bruce didn’t want to be part of it. As Batman, things were simpler. He knew where he fit. But here? Bruce wasn’t sure how to navigate it. Logically, he knew that ‘Brucie’ should be slotting himself right in with the others, but that was the last thing he wanted at the moment. 

Bruce scanned the room for someone else to chat up. A few business people lingered by the larger Christmas tree. Over near the entrance to the kitchen, servers hurried around with trays and platters. Back in the opposite corner from the Christmas tree, a few people Bruce recognized as reporters milled about and—

Bruce sucked in a breath. _Damn it anyway._ He balled his free hand in a fist. 

In the corner with the other reporters was none other than Clark Kent. His head tilted back as he laughed at a joke another reporter made. The suit he wore was ill-fitting, all loose through the shoulders and waist. 

Bruce tossed back his champagne, set the empty flute on a ledge, and stormed off towards the staff gathered near the kitchen. 

“Marie,” he said, hoping his tone didn’t show how angry he was. 

“Yes?” She glanced up from her iPad. Overall, she looked as calm as ever. 

“Has there been any changes to the list of reporters who were invited?”

“No, sir,” she said and tapped the tablet. “The list is the same as the one you signed off on last week.”

Bruce frowned. Of-fucking-course, he hadn’t properly checked through the final list and of-fucking-course the one changed happened to be exactly the one he dreaded. What was Kent’s game?

Marie’s face faltered. “Should I be calling security?”

There was no way he could kick the Daily Planet reporter out of the gala when the news of his sale was supposed to hit in a few days. Bruce mentally swore. “No, no, Marie. It’s fine.” For show, he looked around. “It’s better than fine! This place looks beautiful.”

Before she could reply, Bruce was off again, looking for the nearest waiter with drinks. When he didn’t find any, he turned to the bar at the far end of the room. 

“Gin and tonic,” he said and leaned against the bar. _It’ll be over in a few hours._

 _  
_As Bruce waited for his drink, he forced himself to think about something other than the situation at hand. He mulled over what Alfred had said to him that morning. _Love is always worth a second chance._ But he didn’t know if he loved Kal. He _liked_ him, certainly enough, but he doubted the brewing feelings he had could really qualify as love. Desire, longing, yearning, pinning...sure. But love? Bruce couldn’t be certain if that’s what he felt. 

But he could, one day. He could love Kal so easily.

And wasn’t that worth the risk? Even if he did completely humiliate himself, he’d rather know how Kal felt than spend the rest of his life wondering. Bruce would show all his cards—put all his feelings on the table. Any sort of answer from Kal (even a negative one) would be better than where Bruce was now. 

“Ahem.”

Bruce cringed as someone behind him cleared his throat. 

“Bruce?”

 _Ah fuck._ Bruce rounded to see Kent behind him, standing there sheepishly with his hands in his pockets and his eyes cast down. 

Bruce’s head thundered with anger. Kent had the _audacity_ to come up to him at this gala. Was he planning on making a scene? Bruce held back his bubbling anger—as much as he wanted to deck Kent in the middle of the ballroom, he couldn’t be the one to draw attention. “What,” he spat instead. 

“I just—it’s just…” Kent sighed. He scratched his neck. “I heard you talking to your planner. About us reporters.”

 _Hadn’t he been across the room?_ Bruce clenched his jaw and narrowed his gaze. “And?”

“The only reason I’m here is cause Cat Grant couldn’t make it—won a tropical vacation or something, I’m not exactly sure.” Kent’s Adam’s apple bobs. “It had nothing to do with you. I didn’t even know it was your gala. I didn’t even offer to cover it, either. Perry just gave me the assignment.”

“Sure.” Bruce ground his molars together and wished the bartender would hurry up with that Gin and Tonic. 

Kent still hesitated. “I guess what I’m trying to say is that I wouldn’t ever interfere with your work.”

“Can I get that in writing?” Bruce asked dryly. The bartender pushed the drink in his direction and Bruce happily took it. His grip tightened around the glass and he let the bitter alcohol burn his mouth. 

Kent shook his head. “Can you stay out of mine? I—” Kent’s eyes darted from side to side and he leaned in— “I’ve heard you’re buying the Planet.”

“Did you?” Bruce gives him a coy grin. 

“I don’t know why you think this is a game, but I like my job and I’m damn good at it. If I have a story to tell, I’m going to tell it.”

Bruce would like to see him try. His threat wasn’t empty, but Kent would only bring his own downfall upon himself if he tried to go after his boss by publicly accusing him of being a superhero. But hopefully, he was smart enough to figure that out for himself before the story leaked. It was mutually assured destruction, Bruce mused. If they went to war they’d both end up ruined. 

“As long as you think before you act,” Bruce shot back at Kent. He turned, again, and marched into the party. The soft classical music grated his ears. Everything should’ve been soft and warm and light, but instead, it was sharp and burning and heavy. He tried to wash the bile down his throat with Gin and Tonic. He’d barely been here half an hour and he already felt like he was going to shatter under the pressure. Or maybe explode. At least that would give people something to talk about. 

Instead of taking his usual spotlight, Bruce drifted off to the side of the room to think. Just for a moment, he promised himself. Then he’d get back to the mingling he was supposed to be doing. He swirled his drink and leaned against the wall and sighed. Overhead, the chandlers were looped with red ribbons, but Bruce wasn’t in the mood for anything Christmas related. 

“Mr. Wanye.”

“What,” Bruce snapped.

“Just wanted to say hello. It’s been a long time, after all.”

Bruce’s mouth parted in an o. In front of him, dressed to the nines, stood none other than Lex Luthor. His head reflected the yellowish light from overhead and he had a layer of well-trimmed stubble over his jawline. 

“Lexie,” Bruce said. _Breathe_. “Sorry, sorry. I thought you were someone else. I mean, how was I supposed to know she had a fiance?”

Luthor chuckled dryly. “Is that why you’re hiding in the corner? Or has the playboy finally become the wallflower?”

“Far from it. Just taking it all in, you know?” Bruce pushed his free hand into his pocket and tried to let the tension out of his shoulders. “But you, Lexie. I never thought you were one for parties.” He honestly hadn’t—Bruce had sent Luthor an invitation every year out of formality alone. He never thought Luthor would actually show up. 

“And I never thought you were one to buy a newspaper,” Luthor said. Bruce started to reply, but Luthor waved him off. “Oh, I know it’s all hush-hush still. I won’t say anything. I was just...surprised to hear it, that’s all. They say print is a dying medium.”

Bruce shrugged. “When I was at GothamU—I mean I was only there for one year, but that’s not important—I took an Econ course. The prof said high risk, high reward. What’s higher risk than investing in a ‘dying medium’?”

Luthor smiled. It reminded Bruce faintly of a lizard. “Well,” he said. “Far be it from me to judge how you spend your money. Besides, even if print is on the decline, it’s very powerful, don’t you think? How does that phrase go… the medium is the message?”

“Sure.” Bruce took a swig and finished his drink. 

“I won’t keep you here,” Luthor said. “Go out and mingle, Brucie.”

The way Luthor said Bruce’s name made him feel nauseous. His skin crawled just being around that man, and with every passing moment, Bruce grew more uncomfortable. 

Bruce straightened his suit jacket compulsively. Vaguely, he debated going back to find Anna. Sure—she schemed as much as the rest of them, but at least she wasn’t actively aiming to destroy Bruce’s life. He hoped not, anyway. 

Across the room, Bruce saw Kent winding his way through the crowd, making his way towards Bruce. 

_Oh, for fuck’s sake._ Bruce wanted to turn and rush away. He _would_ find Anna. If she stayed on his arm all night, well, that was more favourable than anything else. 

“Bruce!” Kent raised his hand, signalling to Bruce he was trying to get his attention. 

“ _What.”_

“Somethings wrong—Luthor’s up to something.”

“And how would you know that?”

Kent ran his hand over his face; he looked almost as worn out as Bruce felt. “We can’t talk here. Someone might overhear.” Kent reached down and wound his hand around Bruce’s arm, just above his elbow. “Come on.”

Bruce stopped himself from wrenching his arm out of Kent’s grip and driving the point of his elbow into Kent’s gut. As much as he hated the man, he needed to hear what Kent had to say, so Bruce let himself be pulled through the ballroom. He smiled and greeted some guests as they wound through the crowd. 

“Anna,” Bruce said when they passed her. “Gotta give the newspapers some quotes. I’d say don’t wait up but I’d really rather you did.” He threw her a wink.

Kent grumbled at that. “Do you really need to do that?”

“Do what?”

“Nevermind,” he huffed. 

Finally, he dragged Bruce into a washroom. It wasn’t the one off the ballroom or even the one in the main lobby of the hotel—it was down a long hallway with little fanfare. When they entered, he locked the door while Bruce checked the stalls. 

“This better be good,” Bruce said. “Cause I really don’t fucking feel like talking to you.”

“I don't exactly feel like talking to you either, but you said you’d listen to me. I’m asking you to do that.”

Bruce couldn’t remember making Kent that promise, but he listened regardless. 

“What Luthor was saying to you back there… he’s up to something. He was—well, he actually wasn’t lying, but I think that makes it worse. His heart rate was all over the place—”

How the hell would Kent know any of this? He wasn’t anywhere close to them. Bruce stepped back and took in the man. Up until this point, Bruce had been operating under the assumption that Kent was calculating and dangerous. What if he was deranged?

“—but I couldn’t tell for sure, not up until the very end. That thing he said to you? ‘The medium is the message’?”

Bruce nodded, not understanding. So maybe Kent wasn't deranged, then. His head ached as he tried to keep up with what Kent was saying and how he knew what he did. 

“That’s a quote. Famous in media studies, but that’s kinda beside the point. At first, I thought he was taking it out of context, but now I’m not so sure,” Kent said. He put his hands on the counter and leaned down. “When I heard his heart…It was like he was playing you.”

Bruce swore. “I’m going to need you to explain those leaps you’re making. I’m not a journalist or a mindreader, Kent.”

“Basically, that quote sums up an argument that says the ways we perceive the content is more important than the content itself. The form of the message changes how we understand the content. It’s like...like the fact that the room is set up around the TV is more important than the TV show you’re watching.”

“Okay,” Bruce said as he tried to keep up. “But why does it matter that Luthor said it?”

“The argument is that the way we interact with the media—how we watch TV, or read books, or scroll through Twitter, or read the paper—has widespread consequences. It fundamentally changes how we interpret the things we see.” Kent stood up straight again and raked his finger through his hair. 

“Maybe I sound crazy,” he continued. “But Luthor’s heart was everywhere. And that quote is too pointed for us to ignore it.”

Bruce closed his eyes. He didn’t fully understand what Kent was on about. Something wasn’t adding up. There were pieces of the puzzle he didn’t have (maybe more than he’d like to admit) and he couldn’t grasp the whole picture. “So what’s your plan, then?” He raised his eyebrow. “How are we going to deal with this?”

Kent crossed his arms and sighed. “I know this isn’t great timing, Bruce. But I think we need to find Spina. Now. It can’t wait.”

Bruce stilled. The buzz of the overhead lights rang in his ears and the yellow light cast shadows over Kent’s face. How did Kent know about Spina?

“I know you’ve got this event tonight, but I can’t find him without your help. I’ve tried.”

No.

“Please, Bruce.”

It couldn’t be.

“We need to leave our personal stuff behind us for just a few hours.”

His chin. His jaw. His hair.

“This is more important than our differences.”

His lips. _His eyes._

“We need to suit up and leave now.”

Bruce had been an idiot. A monumental idiot. Shaking, he breathed and swallowed and met Kal’s eyes. “Let’s go save Spina.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The medium is the message" is a phrase coined by the Canadian communication thinker Marshall McLuhan and introduced in his Understanding Media: The Extensions of Man, published in 1964. McLuhan proposes that a communication medium itself, not the messages it carries, should be the primary focus of study. He showed that artifacts as media affect any society by their characteristics, or content.  
> (Wikipedia cause no teachers can tell me not to use it.)
> 
> The medium is the message  
> A statement by Marshall McLuhan, meaning that the form of a message (print, visual, musical, etc.) determines the ways in which that message will be perceived. McLuhan argued that modern electronic communications (including radio, television, films, and computers) would have far-reaching sociological, aesthetic, and philosophical consequences, to the point of actually altering the ways in which we experience the world.  
> (Dicitonary.com)


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Folks!! Thank you so much for your comments!! I was seriously blown away by the love.

The weight of Bruce’s realization didn’t hit him all at once. It was like a wave—after the first crash that knocked him off his feet, he was still floating in the wake, completely lost and being jerked around by the tides. 

“Do you have a plan?” Kal (Clark? Superman? Kent?) asked. 

Bruce paused and tried to catch his mind up to the conversation. He pushed his panic down. There was no choice but to deal with it later—he couldn’t let emotion cloud this mission. “How have you looked for him?”

“I tried to listen,” Kal said quietly, “but I don’t know him well enough to pick him up from a distance. And I tried to look through security footage, but there’s none from the building. The closest thing I’ve got is a traffic cam from the down the street, but the footage from that day was ‘damaged’ when I tried to access it.”

“Shit.” Bruce ground his back molars together. _Think._ “Where’s the building?”

“Spina was staying in an apartment on 5th and Bay Street.”

 _5th and Bay Street…_ A warm surge of hope rose in Bruce’s chest. “I might have an idea. I can’t guarantee anything, but it’s better than nothing.”

Kal nodded curtly. Behind the thick frames and warped glass, his blue eyes looked small and watery. Even now that Bruce knew the objective truth, he couldn’t reconcile the two in his head. The shrewd reporter from small-town Kansas. The ethereal alien who lived in an ice palace. 

“I—well, the thing is,” Bruce swallowed. “I think I might need to borrow your suit. We don’t have time to go back to the cave.”

“My suit? Not a chance in hell—”

“—not _that_ suit. This one.” Bruce gestured at Kal’s poorly fitting grey outfit. “Just the jacket.”

Kal eyed him cautiously. Bruce couldn’t blame him. 

“Look,” he sighed. “Did you talk to the neighbours?”

“Of course I did,” Kal said as he crossed his arms and scowled. “I’m not totally incompetent.”

“Did you talk to them as Superman?”

His face fell from the scowl into mild surprise. “Of course.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I mean, I thought they’d trust me that way. I didn’t think they’d take too well to a stranger poking around in their business.”

“Well, you’re right about that, at least.” Bruce ran his hands through his carefully waved hair and slicked it to his skull. “But this isn’t Metropolis. People aren’t going to hand over information to Superman—or even to Batman, for that matter.” Bruce shrugged off his own well-fitting suit jacket and looked at Kal. “This is a matter of discretion.”

Kal’s nostrils flared and, when he blinked, he kept his eyes closed for a fraction of a second too long. 

The cloying smell of the bathroom’s air freshener clouded Bruce’s nose. He was all too aware of the small space they were in and the tension hung thick in the air. 

“I know you don’t trust me,” he said softly. Because, god, how could Kal trust him? After the bugs? After the dinner...Bruce’s face burned from his ears down to his neck when he thought about it. “I made a mistake. And I promise I’ll explain it all later. I _swear._ But, right now, I need you to trust me. As a teammate.”

Kal’s eyes swept over Bruce from head to toe. “Fine,” he said after a tense moment. He shrugged off his oversized jacket and handed it to Bruce. “Here.”

Bruce slipped it in. Thankfully it was loose on Kal, which meant it fit Bruce better through the shoulders. The arms were an inch or so too long, but that was alright, in Bruce’s opinion. 

The jacket smelled so much like Kal it made Bruce’s chest ache. It carried the warm, clean scent, like freshly cut soap, with something dangerous underneath, like bottled lightning. But he couldn’t let that distract him now. 

“Okay,” Bruce said as he stepped up on the countertop, lifted a ceiling tile, and hid the jacket to his own suit inside. “I need you to bring me to 6th and Bay Street.”

Kal nodded. His hands reached to his collar and he tugged his tie to the side; his fingers reached down and slid open the buttons of his white dress shirt. 

Bruce stared at his own shoes. They were probably too nice for what he was going for, but he’d have to make do. “And I need to stop at a corner store on the way.”

“Alright,” Kal said. 

Bruce looked up at him. There, in the bathroom of the Ritz, stood Superman in all his red and blue glory. Even though there was no wind, his cape seemed to ripple slightly. Bruce wondered if it was a trick of the light. “Won’t you be missed?”

“What?”

“At the party. Won’t they notice you’re gone?”

Bruce sighed. “Probably. But there are more...pressing issues.” 

Kal nodded curtly and with that, they were out the side exit and off into the frigid Gotham night. 

* * *

A few minutes later (and after a brief stop at a corner store for sunglasses and a pack of cigarettes) Bruce stood on 6th and Bay Street. Overhead, Kal waited at a distance. Bruce knew he’d be listening and waiting to jump in if anything went wrong, but part of him still wondered if the hero would hold a grudge. 

With only Kal’s cheap suit jacket for warmth, it was entirely possible he’d catch hypothermia out here, but it wasn’t as if Bruce could ask for a heat-vision warm-up now. Instead, he wrapped his arms around his stomach, tucked his hands to his sides, and kept his head low while he trudged toward the apartment building. All the salt and snow was sure to ruin his shoes. 

When he reached the building, he lit a cigarette before pressing the buzzer. Cold as he might be, he couldn’t let it show now. It was decidedly _uncool_ to be cold. 

“‘Lo?” said the muffled voice through the buzzer.

“Max,” Bruce said, letting a New Jersey accent rake his voice. “It’s Matches. Mind if I come up?”

* * *

Max’s apartment was a wreck. Old computers and wires were piled against the far wall. A layer of dust hung in the air and coated every surface Bruce could see. In front of him stood Max—a young woman nearly Bruce’s height with warm dark skin and black hair swept back in a wild braid. 

“Matches,” she spat. She shoved her hands in the pocket of her hoodie and leaned back against her kitchen chair. “It’s been a minute.”

“It has,” Bruce agreed. He tapped the ashes of his cigarette into the tray on the table. “It has.”

“Why are you coming here on Christmas Eve?” Her eyes narrowed at Bruce.

One of the things Bruce always appreciated about Max was her honesty and directness. With her, there was never any subterfuge or double talk or mind games. Just questions and answers. 

“Looking for a friend,” Bruce said and blew out smoke. “Tony Spina. Disappeared after a break in two days ago from his girlfriend’s place a block away.”

Max drummed her fingers against the table. “I might’ve heard about that.”

“People talk,” Bruce agreed. 

“They talk to their friends.”

Bruce reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet, and fished out a fifty. He slid it across the table to her. “I like to think we’re friends.”

Max took the bill and folded it with her slim fingers. “I’d like to think that we’re better friends than that.”

Twenty minutes later, Bruce clamoured down the stairs, his wallet lighter, and a piece of paper with a license plate number scrawled across it in his hand. 

* * *

Kal starred, clearly in a bit of disbelief. “But I talked to half the building…”

Bruce shrugged. “You gotta be careful,” he said. “Not everyone trusts heroes, you know. And besides, even you can’t keep your ear to the ground all the time. It helps to have contacts watching their own turf.”

“So that’s who Max is? A contact?”

Bruce nodded tersely. “An expensive one, but reliable.”

“Huh.” Kal crossed his arms over the emblem on his chest. It felt off to be with him like this—dressed up as ‘Matches’ and standing in the alley with Superman. Honestly, if Bruce was smart, he wouldn’t be here. It was putting his identity at risk. But he couldn’t bring himself to leave. 

“She some sort of hacker?”

“She is,” Bruce said. “But she didn’t need to hack anything for the plate number.”

Kal quirked an eyebrow. “Then how’d you get that?”

“Max called up Mrs. DePaola in the corner apartment of Spina’s building. Apparently nothing in this neighbourhood happens without her noticing.” 

“That’s...good. Good to know.”

“Yeah.” Bruce bit his lip. The tension from before was still just as thick as it had been, but now it was layered with a heavy dose of awkwardness. Bruce didn’t know what to say to Kal. Just a week ago, he felt that he could talk to him about anything. But now? He couldn’t even form a proper sentence. In his head, he played over that night at _La Perle._ The expensive dinner. He’d asked Kal out and then rejected him in public. Worse than that—he acted as if Kal had physically _burned_ him, the way he jumped back when Kal reached out. 

And then buying the Planet…Bruce wanted to smack himself in the head. He thought buying the Planet would dig him out of a hole, but really he was just digging deeper. How was he ever gonna get out of this? He tried to think of the words, but in this dingy alley, it was hardly the right place or time to suddenly let his feelings flow. 

“I can take the plate up north and run it,” Kal said. 

Bruce shook his head. “Alfred’s already running it as we speak. Believe it or not, we’re actually capable of doing that,” he joked. 

Kal didn’t take it well. His frown only deepened. 

“I didn’t mean it that way,” Bruce backtracked. He swallowed the spit in his mouth. “Honestly, I haven’t meant a lot of things—”

“ _Sir,_ ” hissed Alfred’s voice in his ear. 

_Wonderful timing._ Bruce jabbed the button. “Go ahead.”

“I’ve tracked the plate. The car in question belongs to one Joseph Armswell, who, as far as I can tell, doesn’t actually exist.”

“Of course he doesn’t,” Bruce grumbled. He massaged his temple with his fingers. 

“But it seems our phantom driver also recently bought a warehouse by the rail yard.”

The rail yard…? “No.” The persistent ache in Bruce’s head surged. 

“It is the same one, sir.”

“We’ll go check it out.” Bruce cut the line and kicked at the snow-covered ground. He wanted to scream. Nothing made sense and he’d ruined everything with Kal and now he was with Kal, finally, and he felt even worse than when Kal ignored him. On top of everything, he had a party he was missing out on. 

“Did you catch that?” he asked Kal.

Kal nodded grimly. “I’m not exactly dying to return.” 

Bruce’s eyes wavered down to Kal’s leg. Under the blue of his suit, his skin was almost certainly perfectly healed, but Bruce couldn’t shake the memory of him shaking with pain from the Kryptonite-riddled wound. “Neither am I,” Bruce said. 

“Perfect. Let’s go.”

* * *

  
  


They stood at the edge of the warehouse, neither one sure of what to do.

“It could be full of Kryptonite,” Bruce said.

“And you’re not exactly dressed for a fight,” countered Kal. 

Bruce pinched his nose. “Do you hear anything?” It would be _beyond_ stupid to go in like this. He should’ve asked Kal to get his Batsuit when they had the time. Or at least found himself something to hide his identity or defend himself with—all Bruce had was a few Batarangs tucked into the waistband of his slacks. And absolutely no protection. 

Kal cocked his head, turning his ear toward the building. “There’s only one heartbeat, but there’s… there’s something else. It’s—it’s like a mechanical whirring sound.”

“Is it safe to go in?”

Kal paused. A line etched itself between his brows. “I don’t know.”

“What if we switched suits? For real this time, I mean.”

“Your face would be even more exposed than it is now.”

“Oh.” Bruce coughed. “Right.”

“I’ll go in,” Kal said decisively. 

He was right, Bruce knew. He needed to at least survey the place before Bruce could safely duck inside. Still, the logic of Kal’s answer did nothing to quiet the doubt in Bruce’s mind. “Be safe,” Bruce said with a nod. 

In a blur of motion, Kal was off. 

All the Bruce could see of him was a streak circling around the warehouse. He dug his nails into the skin of his palm and tried to keep his focus. Here, Bruce was cold. His teeth rattled together, but if he kept his hands buried deep in the pockets of the jacket, it wasn’t too bad. He hadn’t checked the weather, but if he had to guess he’d say it was just a smidge below freezing. As long as he kept moving, it wasn’t anything he couldn’t handle after his time in Tibet. 

But his focus slipped back into fear as his thoughts drifted back towards Kal. Here he was, putting himself in the line of fire, all because of Bruce’s mistakes. His gut filled with an icy chill as he thought about it, and Bruce knew it had nothing to do with the weather. 

A moment later, Kal landed lightly in front of him. “I think it’s clear. There’s only one person inside, and he’s out cold. The only thing I can’t place is that damn mechanical sound. It’s like...like a clock.”

Bruce felt another wave of dread wash over him. “Or a timer.”

Kal’s face paled at that suggestion. 

“We go in together,” Bruce said.

“But your face—I can’t tell for sure there aren't any cameras.”

“That’s not important,” Bruce brushed aside Kal. Just as he had a few weeks ago, he was once again running through the snow next to the train tracks towards that damn warehouse. When this was over, he would buy the thing and tear it apart himself. 

Kal flew past Bruce and collided with the door (which someone must’ve fixed since his last visit, Bruce thought vaguely). The metal frame bent and a hard, creaking clang rang out through the empty warehouse and Bruce pushed forward and—

—and the warehouse was empty. The only thing inside was a slumped over form in the centre of the empty room. Not even the fluorescent lights overhead were on—stray beams of moon and city light illuminated the body. Outside, the wind howled.

“Is he…?”

“His heart’s still beating,” Kal whispered. He stepped forward, almost drifting over the concrete. “He’s alive.”

Bruce’s heart felt like it was clamped in a vice. “Then we just walked into a trap.” 

“Not necessarily,” Kal countered. “If it was a trap it would’ve been easier to find.”  
“Maybe.”

“There’s still something...off.” Kal floated forward, his head turning as he scanned the warehouse. He narrowed his gaze at the corrugated metal roof. “Whatever is making that noise is coming from inside the roof.

Bruce bit his lip. “If you give me a lift, I can take a look.”

“I don’t know what it is. It could be dangerous.”

“It could be Kryptonite, and then we’d both be screwed. It’s not up for debate.”

Kal’s jaw locked. “Fine,” he said, unnervingly calm. 

He hooked his hands under Bruce’s arms and lifted him off the ground. Kal had carried Bruce on multiple occasions before (he’d even zipped him around earlier that night) but now it felt different. Strange and intimate. They weren’t racing into action, they were both moving slow and cautiously. 

It was impossible not to feel the way Kal’s strong hands dug into his muscle. The soft fabric layers didn’t dull the feeling the way his Batsuit did. They were so close. Bruce focused inward on his heartbeat. Kal _had_ to hear how it thundered. 

But Kal said nothing as he let Bruce down gently on a beam. From up close, Bruce could hear the faint mechanical buzz as well. Tucked under one beam of a ceiling was a black box, made of what Bruce assumed was lead. 

“Alright, back up,” he ordered. Bruce freed a Batarang from his waistband and pressed it into a screw. 

“B.”

He pressed his lips into a line and concentrated on turning the screw loose as delicately as possible. He was used to precise work, but he never took it lightly. 

The cover slid off and clattered to the ground. Bruce pried off the other side. 

“What is it?” Kal asked softly.

“It’s—” Bruce peered at the clump of wires— “I don’t know.” It wasn’t a bomb (thank god) but he couldn’t tell what it _was_ either. He leaned down, trying to get a good look at all sides. “I don’t think there’s any Kryptonite.”

Before Bruce could elaborate, Kal was at his side, staring intensely at the device. “I’m not exactly a techie,” he said. He flew lower and looked at it from another angle. His face dropped. “There’s a timer inside. That’s what I was hearing. It’s still got an hour left on it.” 

“But it’s not a bomb.” Bruce racked his brain. It made no sense. What was it? He swore he’d seen something similar before, but nothing quite the same. This was all wires and metal and a long, thin cone aimed down at Spina’s unconscious form…

The pieces snapped into place. “It’s a laser,” Bruce said. “A high powered one.”

“A laser? But why…” Kal scrunched his face together and shook his head. “The medium is the message. Luthor was trying to send a message.”

Bruce nodded darkly in agreement; Kal had figured it out too. 

“There are only a few things on Earth that could kill someone like that. One of them being me.”

“I can’t imagine that ‘Superman kills mob leader’ would make for a great Christmas day headline…”

“You’re not wrong,” Bruce agreed. Still, something bothered him. Why here? Why not in Metropolis? And the Kryptonite bullets…. 

“Luthor was trying to turn us against each other,” Bruce whispered to himself as much as Kal. The realization made him feel weak and feverish. His own idiocracy had done that well enough, no intervention from Luthor needed. “Imagine how it seems—Superman kills a criminal in Gotham. On Batman’s turf.”

“And then Kryptonite bullets from a Gotham warehouse flood the market.” Kal’s face looked grim. 

Bruce shifted, careful not to fall from his perch on the beam. “It’s a flawed plan. Luthor gambled a lot on us not communicating.”

“Did he?” Kal’s lips curved in uncertainty. “I’m not sure this was about us at all. I keep turning over his quote…”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m a reporter, B. And you’ve been in the paper enough times.” Kal sighed and crossed his arms. “It’s not the truth that matters. It’s the way it’s presented. And you said it yourself—plenty of people are wary about heroes as is. Something like this?”

“It would spark an international debate.” Bruce grimaced. “As soon as the story made headlines, it wouldn’t matter what either of us said. We’d be forced to play catch up to Luthor’s game.”

“But we’re ahead of it. Right?”

Bruce closed his eyes. They were an hour shy of an international incident. If he’d been a little denser; if Kal hadn’t been at the gala to overhear Luthor’s comments… Bruce didn’t want to consider how the next day would have looked. “We’re ahead of it for now.”

“And we’ll have to keep it that way.”

* * *

They waited for the cops to show on a rooftop on the other side of the railyard. In the end, they decided it was best this way—an anonymous tip-off. If they wanted to cut off Luthor, they had to ditch his fanfare entirely. 

But even if it was the best decision, Bruce was cold. Freezing. All those years of training in Tibet be damned. He tried his best to hide it, but his teeth clattered together and a shiver ran up his back. 

“Are you cold?” Kal gave him a pointed look. 

“No.”

A moment later, a warmth flooded over Bruce. It was like the warmth of the rush of air from an open oven all over his body. 

Bruce let out a small sigh of relief. “Thank you.”

Kal sat on the edge of the rooftop and said nothing. He knocked his heels against the side of the building as he swung his legs in a child-like way. 

“Luthor knows who we are,” he finally said. 

Bruce sat next to Kal. He kept his gaze focused on the warehouse. “He does,” Bruce confirmed. He wouldn’t have been at the gala otherwise. And Cat Grant winning a tropical vacation? It couldn’t be a coincidence. 

“I think I have an idea that’ll protect our identities, as long as you don’t mind your party being crashed.”

Bruce let out a strangled laugh. “I think it’s safe to say this year’s gala is a write-off already. What’s one more thing?”

Kal nodded. “You have a contact at GCPD, right? Could you convince them to bring in Luthor for questioning?”

“Consider it done.”

“Good.” Kal smiled weakly before turning his head away. “At least now I know who planted the bugs in my apartment.”

 _Oh._

“That—you see—the thing is—” Bruce swallowed. “That was me.”

“ _What._ ” Kal rounded on Bruce, his face dark with anger. “Where do you get off—”

“I didn’t know you were Superman.”

All of the anger on Kal’s face melted away. He blinked. “What? But at that event, you said you knew who I was.”

“I knew who Clark Kent, nationally recognized reporter was.” Bruce scratched his ear. “And I thought he was blackmailing me.”

They sat together on the empty rooftop, snow drifting around them, in the low light of the moon and city glow. The city was achingly empty; coated in a quiet blanket of snowfall and Christmas. Neither one of them knew what to say next. 

“Look, Kal,” Bruce said. His chest tightened and his thoughts raced. “I think—I _know_ I owe you an apology.”   
Kal’s cheeks flushed pink. “I owe you one too.”

“No, no. You don’t. I’m sorry. I was an idiot.”

“I should’ve been more clear.” Kal rubbed the back of his neck. “I thought you didn’t want me. After the restaurant. I thought you were ashamed to be seen with me in public—”

“—I could never—”

“—but you didn’t know.” Kal racked his hands through his hair. “You must’ve wanted to kill me. _Oh god,_ you didn’t know.”

“I never meant to humiliate you. Or invade your privacy.”

“You know, after _La Perle,_ Lois said I should talk to you.”

“Did you tell her?”

“Only about the date,” Kal clarified. “Not about the whole...bat thing. But she said I should talk to you and I was too angry to listen.”

“I should’ve talked to you too.” Bruce’s face burned. It was all too much. He’d been so horrible to Kal without even knowing it. And, in turn, Kal had no choice but to assume the worst in Bruce. All their interactions raced through Bruce’s head. If only he’d listened a little better, if only he’d looked a little deeper, maybe he would’ve seen it. 

“Wait,” Kal said. “If you didn’t realize that was my apartment, did you think I lived at the fortress?”

Bruce’s eyes widened. “Maybe,” he grumbled.

Kal chuckled. His light laugh rang through the night. “You didn’t realize I even _had_ another identity.”

“I might’ve failed to evaluate all possibilities.”

Kal lightly brushed Bruce’s arm. “Bet that really threw you through a loop when I started talking about Jane Austen.”

“It might’ve.”

“Well, it’s a good thing I didn’t quote _Grey’s Anatomy_ , then. Might’ve blown your mind.”

“You can’t seriously watch that.”

“What can I say? There’s something about that line… _It’s a beautiful day to save lives…”_

In the distance, red and blue lights flashed over the roadway. The faint cry of sirens rang through the night. 

“We should be getting back,” Bruce said.  
“It’s probably time.”

And, once again, Bruce found himself back in Kal’s arms, speeding through the night.

* * *

It was a strange and surreal feeling to be standing back in the bathroom of the Ritz-Carlton after everything that had transpired over the last few hours. 

Bruce ruffled his hair back into something more appropriate for Brucie and shrugged off Kal’s jacket. “Here,” Bruce said, handing it back to him. “I’ll pay for the dry cleaning. It probably reeks of cigarettes and nervous sweat.”

Kal laughed as he wormed his way back into it. “At least that explains why I’ve been missing half the night.” The way the baggy suit hid his toned muscles was nothing short of a miracle and absolutely criminal. Bruce wondered what Kal would say if he bought him a tailored suit for Christmas. 

“I’ll give you a quote,” Bruce offered. 

“I’ll need it if I want Perry off my back.” Kal slipped his glasses back on and the last bits of Superman faded away. Even now that Bruce knew where to look, he still had to strain to see the hero in the reporter’s face.

“I might be able to pull some strings,” Bruce quipped back. 

In the low and warm light, Clark glowed and grinned. “Which reminds me, we should probably enter separately. I don’t want any rumours about me and my boss…”

Bruce swore. “Maybe I’ll sell it again.” 

Clark stepped closer. “Maybe.”

Bruce leaned in. “That would be a damn shame, though. It was a good investment.”

Clark reached up and ran his thumb over Bruce’s jaw. “It’s after midnight, Bruce.”

Bruce’s heart rang in rhythm with Clark’s. It was him. It was always him. He was warmth and danger and wit and kindness. How could he have missed it? Bruce tucked one of his loose curls behind his ear. 

“Merry Christmas.” Clark closed the distance between them and, once again, the wave of _him—_ Clark and Kal and Superman—crashed over Bruce.

He let himself drift away in his warm and brilliant wake. 


	16. Epilogue

_ Not so Merry and Bright: Annual Wayne Gala Broken up by Police _

_ By Clark J. Kent _

_ What started as the event of the season ended in an unusual way this Christmas Eve--and possibly generated more buzz than any of the previous years. The event, held this year at the Gotham Ritz-Carlton, did not end in gifts and fireworks, but rather came to an abrupt halt due to police presence. Lex Luthor, CEO of LexCorp, was taken in by GCPD for questioning regarding the kidnapping of one Tony Spina. Luthor declined to comment on the situation, but no charges have been laid at this time and a statement by a spokesperson from LexCorp says that Luthor “fully intends to cooperate with police in any way possible”.  _

_ When asked about the intrusion into his famous party, Bruce Wayne only shrugged. “Truth be told, I missed all the commotion,” said Wayne, “I didn’t even see them drag [Luthor] away.” Wayne also stressed that, while he was disappointed the party came to an unexpected end, he understands that the safety of Gotham and the people must come first.  _

“Are you rereading that article again?” Clark asked, his voice lightly teasing.

Bruce shoved down the paper. “No. I’m reading the sports column.”

Across the room, Clark rolled his eyes. “Right, right. Because Lombard is such a riveting writer.”

“He’s not bad.”

“Who won the hockey game that night?”

Bruce pressed his lips into a line. Honestly, he didn’t even know what teams were playing in the latest match. “The Flyers.”

“There wasn’t a game last night, B.” Clark smiled--his grin was smug and cocky and warm all at the same time. His smile alone was enough to drive Bruce crazy. And now he was sitting there, in Bruce’s room, with his dark hair loose in messy waves, wrapped only in Bruce’s old plaid bathrobe. It would be the death of Bruce, he swore. 

Bruce felt his cheeks warm lightly now that he was caught out. “I think the article is great,” he admitted. “I mean, it’s a great plan. It’s  _ your  _ article talking about  _ my  _ party. Luthor can’t come for either of us without seeming bitter. People will dismiss his comments as petty revenge.”

Clark nodded once. “And it makes it all the sweeter that he walked into this all by himself. I mean, if he just stayed clear we never would have known. Everything would’ve blown up in our faces.”

At the thought of that, Bruce grimaced. “Luthor’s always thought he’s too clever for his own good. He couldn’t resist playing around with us. He was probably just waiting for someone to get the twitter notification that Superman had murdered a criminal in cold blood.”

“Hmm.” 

“We might’ve figured it out,” Bruce said. “In the end.”

Clark laughed. “If the last few weeks have proved anything, it’s that the title of ‘World’s Greatest Detective’ is up for grabs.”

Bruce rolled his eyes. “And I thought you were supposed to be an investigative reporter, but you couldn’t tell I thought you were two different people.”

Clark gave an empty chuckle, but his face was turned down in a dark frown. “Someone could’ve died because we couldn’t figure our shit out,” he whispered. 

“But he didn’t.” Bruce walked up to Clark and sat next to him on the sofa. In the soft morning light, his skin glowed. Bruce reached up and ran the back of his hand over Clark’s cheek. “Clark. It didn’t happen.” He cupped his face and leaned forward. Their foreheads pressed together. In the silence, he could hear Clark’s heart thumping in rhythm with his own. “We’re okay.”

Clark took Bruce’s hand and squeezed it. He pulled his head back from Bruce and frowned, a line wrought into the crease of his forehead. “There’s something else--another plan--I’ve been thinking about.”

“Yeah?”

“This is going to happen again. It might not be Luthor, and it might not even be us, but someone out there is going to try and destroy the public’s trust in heroes overall.” He leaned back slightly and sighed. 

Bruce paused. He let his hands drop to his lap. The thought had more than crossed his mind--it had been keeping him up for the days since the gala. “I’ve thought the same,” he admitted. Logically, he knew he should’ve brought it up sooner. He should have grabbed Clark by the hand and hauled him into the cave on Christmas morning so they could lay down plans for the future.

But, selfishly, Bruce hadn’t.

Instead, he’d stumbled into the dark of his bedroom with Clark. And after Clark had returned from Christmas dinner in Smallville, they’d stumbled into his apartment. And then the fortress. And then the cave, but for an entirely non-planning related reason. 

In the haze of the days between Christmas and New Year's, Bruce didn’t want to think about reality. He wanted to stay drunk off Clark’s warm scent and fiery kisses. He wanted Clark’s hands wrapped around his body. He wanted the flex of hard muscles and that throaty laughter and the graze of Clark’s fingers against Bruce’s jaw. 

Bruce took in all of Clark. All of him. Here he was--the alien and the farmboy and the reporter. And here he was, sitting in Bruce’s bedroom on New Year’s morning. He wanted, once more, to let himself drift away with Clark, completely detached from reality. 

But, here Clark was, thinking of the future. And--for a few moments--Bruce knew he had to swallow his wants. There were people who needed them. 

“So,” Bruce continued, “what’s your big plan?”

Clark looked down slightly. “We need to be ahead of the people trying to divide us. And, yes, I mean  _ us  _ us, but I also mean the other heroes too. The Flash and the Lantern and Wonder Woman.

“I think we need to start a league.” Clark raised his chin and met Bruce’s eyes. While Bruce always thought of Clark’s eyes as warm, in this moment they burned. 

Bruce ignited. 

How could he have missed out on everything that was in front of him the whole time? Seeing Clark like this, now.... Bruce didn’t understand how he ever could have assumed he had ill intentions. 

“You’re right, of course,” he said. He ran his hand up the hard plains of Clark’s muscled chest. Bruce leaned in close and whispered in his ear, “we need to stop playing games.”

Clark’s hand ran through Bruce’s hair. Bruce couldn’t be sure who moved first, but the next moment he was tangled up in Clark, wrapped in his arms, and burning with every touch. He pulled Clark’s lip in his teeth and smiled with satisfaction as  _ Superman _ twitched. 

“Happy New Year,” Bruce whispered, “Kent.”

“Happy New Year,” Clark said in a low tone, “ _ Mr. Wayne _ .” 

Bruce, in spite of himself, grinned like a kid. The sun flooded the room and the snow blew against the glass and they stayed there, together, wrapped in each other’s warmth. 

The truth of it all was this: as much as Bruce wanted Clark, he needed him too. He didn’t know what lay on the horizon--the world, he suspected, would always doubt heroes on some level. There were threats that lurked in space and threats that lurked in their own cities. But now, with Clark as his partner, he was certain that they could face whatever the world would throw at them. Together. 

_ So _ , Bruce thought,  _ bring it on.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well folks!! Thanks for coming along for the ride!  
> This has been my first multichapter fic (that wasn't just a few one shots! This had a whole plot! It wasn't a character study!) and I don't think I would've made it to the end without all of your support. So thank you. So much.  
> If you liked my work, I wrote a one-shot the other day about these two idiots if you wanna check it out. Otherwise, come chill with me on Tumblr @snailwriter


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